June 15th will mark one year since my wife went in for her weekly appointment (we were due July 11th) at about 1:00 pm and I carried my son to the nursery at about 5:45 pm. In between that time there was the "I think he's breached, you need to go over to the hospital" by her obgyn's midwife to the formal ultrasound to the wild run to the hospital from work by me (I was working for a lawn and landscape co. and I smelled like it) to the nurses "theres not enough fluid to turn him your gonna have your baby, today, in an hour" (yeah, an hour) to the emergency C section. Just your ordinary, normal day. Little warrior came home on Fathers Day, and much to everyone's surprise, visited ours and now his fellowship that night. This past year we have understood love in ways we never thought possible. There's a way you feel about your child that only a parent understands, it's impossible to explain. I don't say that to make those without kids feel left out or anything like that, it's just that I didn't get it until he was here, and during the pregnancy we had others try to explain the intensity of that love, but they always said something like "I can't explain it, you'll understand when he's here".
This past year we went to a pediatric heart specialist expecting him to tell us that the heart murmur is fairly common and he would live a normal life instead he said "this is how the heart works..." Numbness, fear, anger. "We need to do angioplasty to open up his pulmonary valve..." Panic, fear, shock. "Here's what you need to hear, we can fix this, he will live a normal life". Glimmer of hope, depression setting in. One week later he was hooked up to a million monitors in the neo natal emergency room, and then we did something I'll never forget in all my life. We carried him down to where they would be doing the procedure...and we handed him to the nurse, and she walked off with him. SHE WALKED OFF WITH HIM. The swinging doors closed behind her. Time was frozen. About two hours later, the doctor poked his head in the waiting room, but he was not in the hall alone, there, still stoned from anasthesia, was my wide eyed, large pupiled warrior. My eyes are teary even now as I type this remembering that moment. We respond to things different now. He's trying to walk, and he, being his fathers son, doesn't just fall down, he wrecks. Smacked his head on the tile a couple of days back, earned his first black knot. I hated it, hated that he hurt, but when you've pondered losing him, it's just not the same. Sometimes when he wakes up yelling at night, I feel like something beat me excessively, like being hungover without the party. Even in those moments which at times can be very frustrating when he won't let you put him back down, we still like being there to hold him, to hear him pierce my eardrums. I'd take that piercing cry with him over a silent night without him everytime, anytime.
Now one year later, he's changed a lot. Looks more like his mom than he did when he was born (very fortunate indeed). We've changed alot too. It's all good. His name is gealic. Caedmon Teague. Caedmon means warrior. Teague means poet. Warrior poet. He had to live up to his first name in ways we never imagined when the it was given to him. His mother is ready for the sensitive poet to show itself, and it does when pretty girls are around. He loves pretty women. First class flirt. Gets it from his mom. (The flirt part, not the love of pretty women part). Ok, just kidding. I love the aggressive warrior in him, the complete lack of fear. This is so early in our journey of parenting, and there is much laughter, tears, timeout, spanking, wrestling, etc., ahead. I hope it doesn't go as fast as this past year. He'll be graduating high school tomorrow if it does. I'm certain those of you with older ones will tell me in the comments that it goes at least that fast. Well don't. I don't want to hear it. Okay, fine, but say it gently.