We brought him home from the hospital. Our young little selves, at twenty-two and twenty-three brought a real life human baby home to care for. God created and grew him in my womb. Only God could create this tiny miracle. And here we were, still newly-weds of some sort, bringing home a child to love and care for. And let me tell you, no one could love a baby more than us.
We doted on him. For hours we would just stare at him, this miracle. We counted fingers and toes. We ran our fingers down his soft baby skin arms. We smelled his head and marveled at every little noise he made. He had a crooked little yawn. He stretched like big people do, only it was tiny and much cuter. He curled up his chubby legs. He opened his eyes and they met ours, again. At times it felt as if he could see straight into my soul. He intently watched us, always observing and learning about the world around him.
Time passed and soon his days and nights straightened out. We found a new normal, adjusting to life as parents. We worked during the day, Jeff at a cabinet shop while I stayed home and watched extra kids. Our evenings consisted of spending time with our little family and working on our forever-fixer-upper house. Life was good. Thao was growing and learning and keeping us on our toes.
We were in awe of this little boy with bright blue eyes and contagious smile. He loved well, learned much, and snuggled often. He learned to crawl and then to walk.
It was a simple life, a quiet life. And it was so good.
"For me, the worst part of giving birth was the fact that I had to share my baby. I couldn't protect him or selfishly keep all the smiles and snuggles to myself. He was a beautiful, fun baby. He was our gift." -Excerpt from Still.
You can read more of Thao's story in my memoir, Still (when all else fades away).
