Not a Sculptor

It was true, with a little assistance and a whole lot of grace, a beautiful child was indeed sculpted. All mothers are obligated to say and feel this, but in those first hours of Jameson’s life, once we were finally left alone together, I marveled at his 19 ¾” of perfection. I remember this specifically because, to my amazement, when I fingered his tiny curled ear, it blossomed open under my touch. Jameson still has beautiful ears!

So when I was told with a wink and a smile that I was “a sculptor,” I was too embarrassed and grungy-feeling to really believe that I had done anything remotely amazing or artistic—Jameson’s beauty was clearly God’s handiwork and I just did the eating and the pushing. It didn’t take long, though, for this rejected compliment to reach deeper depths for me. Scarier depths.

A few entries ago, I wrote about leaving the flat in Aluksne only to return several weeks later to an essentially new life. Physically having baby and making that adjustment is about as life changing as one can get, but never one to take things half way, the birth of this child was redefining my approach in ways it would take me years to even understand.

So in those first days, as I put Baby Jameson to bed in the big vegetable basket he slept in, all I could thing about was this huge responsibility, and opportunity, to sculpt his life. That would take REAL artistry, and that scared the hell out of me.