Eli Edition

I will be the first to admit that I grossly underestimated how much I would learn from becoming a mother. Sure, I'd heard about it from nearly every parent I've ever met, but I suppose I'm one of those girls who just has to learn her lessons for herself.

For starters, I now understand how there can be room in one's heart to love a second child (or any subsequent children, for that matter) even after feeling that there is no possible way that a love could ever match the one felt for your firstborn. This was a concept that plagued me with doubt and worry while I was pregnant with our son.

Of course, the moment he arrived, I realized I had no idea of the capacity for love with which God designed a parent's heart. (And oh, the parallels I can draw between that capacity for love and His love for us as our "Father"!) I cannot imagine my world without precious Eli in it! I love him so deeply, it almost hurts. Do I love Norah less as a result? Not a chance. Do I believe my parents now when they say it would be impossible for them to pick a favorite child? Absolutely. (Sorry, Amanda) This post, however, is dedicated to my sweet, "little buddy", who, I've decided, was hurting for some press time in Robinson County.

Eli is also the child responsible for teaching me the meaning of the phrase "cut the apron strings". I never really understood that phrase until I felt that now, all too familiar tug behind my back, resulting in the need to retie my apron...again. It makes my heart ache to think that it will one day be my responsibility and duty to "cut" those strings (especially when I consider how quickly these precious, wonderful childhood days are flying by).

My little man loves to be in the kitchen, whether he's helping me "cuk", unloading the dishwasher (one of his favorite pastimes--and he says, "Thank you ma'am" for every, single, piece of silverware he proudly hands to me), or banging pots and pans in the play kitchen. Unfortunately, he is equally fond of raiding the kitchen trashcan...but hey, nobody's perfect, right?

He loves listening to music, and is quick to pick up lyrics. Often times, if I interrupt a song by turning off the car, he will attempt to finish it out as best he can. He loves to sing with us. His favorite songs to date are "Jesus Loves Me", "Night Night, Little Eli God Cares for You", "Thank you, God", "This is the Bible", "Pitter Patter, Pitter Patter", and "The Trees are Gently Swaying" (Notice a pattern? We have been blessed with WONDERFUL Bible class teachers!)

He also loves to "dance" (with the unfortuntate rhythm of his mother), spin, and stomp, and will happily perform one or all three feats on command. In spite of not opting to walk until he reached 15 months of age, he now moves around like greased lightening! And when he runs, his flaxen locks flop precariously atop his sweet head, no doubt reminding his paternal grandma and grandmother of another towheaded, blue-eyed, fair-skinned boy from days gone by.

As his vocabulary becomes larger and his words more clearly pronounced, his appetite increases, and his features continuously change, I am constantly aware that he grows less baby and more little boy with every passing day.

But then...there are times when I still catch tiny glimpses of my baby. These windows of time seem to appear most frequently when he's sleeping peacefully, or is feeling insecure and wants to be held close.

I love the person I am watching him become. He is such a content boy. He's obedient, helpful, and
I can already tell that he has a tender heart. (He can hardly take seeing his sister disciplined with even a stern word).

As much as I love watching him grow, I will soak up every remaining second I have with this precious, perfect, chubby cheeked, baby boy, and hope that in so doing, he will always feel his mother's love, even when those apron strings finally meet their day of reckoning.