It is 8:05 am, and my son is rubbing his eyes. He doesn't usually nap this early. In fact, some mornings, he doesn't nap at all anymore. We just finished a family breakfast of pancakes and fruit, and the carbs must be doing him in. I dab at his banana-caked face with a paper towel and hastily make plans that will enable us to get to early (a.k.a. less-crowded nursery) church.
"Ok," I say to Theo, "You get the pork in the crock pot for small group tonight and jump in the shower, and I'll take care of the baby. When you're ready, I'll shower."
My husband, who is gathering the plates and picking up a sippy cup off the ground, says, "New plan. I'll take care of the pork, you take care of the baby. Then you shower and get ready, and we'll swap."
I smile. He knows me well, and he must really want to get to church on time.
I grab Collin and head upstairs for a diaper change. On the way up, I start to hear the whiny, "I'm tired" cry.
"Can you grab me a warm bottle?" I call as I round the corner to the nursery.
A few minutes later, a sleep sacked Collin is sitting in my lap, bottle in hand. His piano CD, which he has listened to at nap time and bed time almost every day since he was born, is playing. He is pretending like he isn't tired, but every thirty seconds or so he lays his head against my chest. I close my eyes, hoping it will encourage him to do likewise. I feel little fingers in my nose, then on my teeth, then against my cheek. I try not to smile as I take his hand and hold it gentle-firm in my hand. He begins to relax against me, and - after a few minutes - I peek to see if he is still awake. He is, but he is staring blankly at the curtains and sucking furiously on his pacifier. A few more minutes pass, and he is out.
His right arm is tucked under my left arm and his body is stretched out horizontally across my lap until his legs fall off the end. I can remember a time - not so very long ago - when his whole body fit between my arms. Last night, I showed him a picture of himself at that stage. I pointed to the picture to practice his name and said, "Col-lin."
He smiled, clapped his hands and says "Ba-by?!"
You're still my baby! I wanted to say. But, instead, with feigned enthusiasm, I said, "That's right, it's a baby!," and I put him down on the ground, on two feet, so he could tot away.
My time rocking him to sleep is limited. Most days, he can't get comfortable on me. Right now is an exception, and I am soaking it up. I know I need to get a move on it so we can get to church, and I promise myself I will -- in just 2 more minutes.
In the meantime, I finger his curls and think of his grandmother saying, "He is the only Lu with curly hair!" I find the little patch of auburn - his "mommy stripe" - in his otherwise dark hair and I lift it up, thinking of how much I love every little hair on his head.
My two minutes are up and I move my hands to lift him to the crib, but there is something so special about this fleeting moment that I pause. I know that I am making a decision between going to church with dirty hair or clean, but I am now mommy-drunk with love for this baby. I relax my grip and settle back into the rocker.
As I listen to his rhythmic breath, I find myself wondering if God cares whether I am fixed up for church. It seems disrespectful to show up half-dirty week after week, but things like this always seem to interfere. My tired thoughts begin to wonder, and I find myself hypothesizing about whether Jesus would go to church with dirty hair if he was a woman in the Bible-belt South. (I didn't promise that this was going to be scholarly!).
As soon as I think the question, I know the answer. If it meant that he got to hold on and love one of his precious children (including me!) for an extra thirty minutes, of course he would chose the dirty hair! He endured humiliation, shame, and death so that he could save us at our worst. A sacrificed shower seems rather minor . . .
Once again, motherhood has pointed me up. Thanks be to God!
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