Dear Bryce

September 28, 2019

Dear Bryce,

I cannot believe you are one.

We know by now that time flies like the wind. But since you were born, it feels like we blinked, and instead of this ball of newborn-smelling snuggles and adorable old-man-forehead-wrinkles, you are this walking, climbing, giggling machine.

I tell people that you’re a miracle baby. After we lost Abram and then had 3 miscarriages, we didn’t know if you were possible. We braced ourselves with realistic expectations and said we’d give it a few more go’s with new medicine, although chances felt bleak by then. I said I’d be okay if we couldn’t have another baby. I said we’d find peace and keep writing our story.

 But how fiercely my heart hoped. I looked at the girls’ faithful bouncer, waiting in the basement, the boba wrap folded in the corner of a basket, the cloth diapers tucked away – bright pockets of color, and oh, how I hoped for you. I read to the girls in the rocker and how I hoped for you. I lit Abram’s candle when my heart ached for the boy in the stars, and how I hoped for you.  When we saw that plus sign on the pregnancy test; we held our breath and waited. It might not stick, we said.  But with all of my being, I hoped.  I waited to download apps. I started shots, not knowing if they’d do the trick. I drank my smoothies and drank water and breathed in love towards my belly, because all I could do was hope.

And then we heard your heartbeat. Baby boy, you were covered in gratitude, you were blanketed in love, you were grown on hope from the very, very beginning. I look at your toothy grin now – or some days, your big-lip pout face when you aren’t allowed to eat the dog food – and think, god, we are lucky. We are so lucky to have you.

When you were born, it was a long day of waiting. The contractions were slow to come in strong, and I remember being annoyed that I could talk and walk through them; it meant the real labor hadn’t arrived yet. When it did, it hit fast and hard. Erin went to answer a phone call between some ridiculous contractions, and she had to sprint back two minutes later because you were on your way, and the whole hall heard it. Your dad was there, of course. Your granny was there. Erin was there, catching you as you came into this world. A group of nurses ran in, and they said even the toughest one there shed a tear because of the love that was in the room. Amanda was there to take pictures. Pops and Mor Mor and Pop Pop were waiting with your sisters. Your aunts and uncles and cousins were all waiting to get the news. Our whole village was waiting for news of you, all of them welcoming you into the world. There was so much joy.

I remember you looking different than I expected. Longer. Skinnier. I said like a little newborn accountant. But boy, were you cute. The girls adored your tiny yawns, your thoughtful expressions, your forehead wrinkles and wizard hands. We all worried and fussed over you like old church ladies. “Brycey Bear,” you became to our family.

As a newborn, you snuggled beside your sisters while we read and they pet you, like a new puppy. You loved the swing and moses basket and Duke basketball on Daddy’s lap. You stared at your hands and discovered your toes and growled and grunted like all Sheaffer babies do. You put up with 16 kindergartners yelling your name every time we visited Addie and wanted to see Baby Bryce, Mrs Webb and Mrs Gallagher reminding them to not breathe germs on the baby.  You loved playing in water from the start, and only took a bottle a handful of times. If that. You were our calmest newborn, only ticked off if you were hungry or tired or hugged a little too tightly by Bria, and you always fell asleep saying “ahhhhhh…” to yourself on our shoulders. You loved the bouncer and tried to roll yourself up in the playmat many times. You had ear infections and all the kindergarten colds and the worst stomach bug. You moved from the nursery where we brought all our babies to a new house with new adventures where your window overlooks trees and a stream, and still the same swingset in the backyard, signifying home. You hated snow, but loved the sand and sound and ocean.

Currently, at one year old, you Never. Stop. Moving. You sit on the high chair tray and stand on the table. You love throwing your cup on the ground and feeding Wallie, whose begging behavior has gotten fairly horrible, rewarded by your first word being “dog!” You cheerfully unload house plants, eat mulch, play in the dog food, open toilets to fill them with Mr Potato Head parts, and find every cord there is. You are slightly mama-clingy, but flap your arms and kick your legs everytime someone you love comes through.  You wave to Addie’s bus every day and want to stay with Bria at her school. When you are nervous, you scamper up the nearest person and grab on like a tree frog. The girls playing boo makes you laugh in the best way, and you love to give open-mouth kisses. You think patty-cake is the best game ever, and could read the zoo book and Daddy Cuddles every night. You have big ole teeth, big ole ears, and the best big ole laugh.

If you were a girl, we would have loved you the same, but baby boy, you have brought so much healing. We miss your brother. We grieve for him, for what could have been, for the boy who came before you and is so loved. But I know with all of my heart that a piece of his spirit is within your heart, just as we all carry a piece of Abram within us. I have moments where I can feel a connection between my boys, when I rock you and you decide to hold onto his blanket and be still, and I wonder if somehow your worlds are overlapping in ways I can’t see, if I’m holding both brothers as you sit together with me. Times when Bria and Addie say they are so glad we have a baby brother they can play with, or when you toddle around in the dinosaur pajamas I cried into when we lost Abram. Just as your sisters have brought us so much healing, helping us remember Abram, keeping him with us, so do you.

Sometimes I look at you playing with your sisters or your Dad, and I’m just overwhelmed with love for our family. And I have loved watching you become.

I know every year is going to go this fast. I know you are going to keep becoming. But every year, we’ll celebrate you and that sweet, sweet smile. We may have called you Little Love, but there is nothing little about this love.

I want you to know that you came from hope.  And you have brought so much joy. You are the bookend to our family, and every time you stop for a whole five seconds to lay your head on my shoulder, my heart is thankful down to the deepest corners that you are ours. Happy birthday, baby boy. Your first trip around the sun was awesome.

Love you always,

Mama