Anna is teaching me more than ever about need. About presence of Mother. Proximity. About dependency.
You would think, by child #6, this wouldn’t seem so new, but I’m telling you: everything is different. Most of all, Mother is different.
To have seen “normal” through the eyes of a first-timer, clueless about everything… then navigating the place of pre-birth loss… then “normal” in the context of all-things-provided, but with a “sensory” child… then being swept over & nearly drowned by “trauma-parenting”… then being saturated with God’s perspective of life, birth, mother-child-relationship… to becoming pregnant again as a completely blindsiding disruption of (our) lives…
Most everything about this mother’s perspective is different.
So here is this tiny person. Perfectly made. Precious beyond comprehension. Seen from before first breath.
Utterly dependent.
Obviously. She doesn’t come out without a big push forward. She doesn’t breathe without a little stimulation. She doesn’t get nourishment without someone bigger, equipped to provide. She doesn’t stay warm, doesn’t get cleaned up, doesn’t survive without love, without the giving of another. Again, and again, and again.
And this little lady with her tiny cries (that are growing with her) tells me as clear as day that she needs proximity. She’s not to be left alone. She’s not supposed to be cold yet. Not supposed to be left to hunger, to be dirty, to be exposed. She’s not equipped yet, to respond to the stressors of life, to calm herself, to feel safe.
(Have I seen all of this before? In both 6-lb babies ignorant of everything, and in 100-lb babies that saw it all broken down and torn right away?)
I heard her, clear as day, in those early weeks before she could comprehend anything. “Momma!” And you bet this momma came. No cry-it-out around here. Not until there is developmental capability to begin practicing self-soothing. Not until those neural pathways have developed, learned how to calm down, to regulate, to trust.
So days and nights can feel long, and I can feel worn right down. But my interpretation of these circumstances is different. And I’m keenly aware that these days are passing ever-so-quickly, and they’re almost certainly my last go-’round with this particular season of wonder.
She’ll learn to communicate with words, and then screaming won’t work anymore.
She’ll learn to walk, and won’t be carried around anymore.
She’ll learn to survive and eventually navigate solitude and independence, and won’t be so hurried-to anymore.
But we need to know, and we know it right from the beginning when parenting submits to the ways of God: We are the precious ones of our Father. He is not inattentive. He is not far away. The Lord is near to all who call upon Him. To all who call upon Him in truth. (Psalm 145:18)
Now you’d better believe if we scream for Him then push away when He comes, we won’t have the same snuggles as if we relax and rest. It’ll feel more like being restrained and forced than held (yes, this is how many, many, many hugs have felt to some of ours whose “love” concept was so broken). And you’d better believe that if we cry out in our miserably dirtiness and then kick around in our mess instead of let Him just clean us up it’ll get a lot uglier before it gets fresh and clean.
Can we just remember that He always hears when we cry the right cry? The right cry simply being a truth-knowing “I need You.” That our mess is as good as gone, as soon as we confess we need a clean-up and can’t do it ourselves? Can we remember that, even though we’re learning how to sit, walk, jump, perform, compete, think, accomplish, even teach… we still have the profound need that we all started with.
Presence. Proximity. Dependency.
We are small, so small. And He is with us.