Two or three months ago Jamison got sick.
Normally, this wouldn't necessarily be worth writing about, but on this occassion he happened to be cutting his first four teeth--all four at the same time--as well as running a fever and coughing and the rest of the stuff that comes with a cold.
He was very fussy and clingy, I couldn't leave him alone for a moment during the day. Nothing helped him feel better either. I know. I tried everything I could think of.
That night he didn't want to sleep. I rocked him and sang to him and held him so close, carressing his head and making soothing coos at him, but he was inconsolable. He screamed...and screamed...and screamed....
I've always taken a little bit of pride in the fact that I have "the touch" with Jamison. I usually know just what to do and never have to ask for any help. But not this night. After 45 minutes of harsh, nonstop wailing, I finally called for Keaton, who was waiting in the wings.
"Take him," I said, near despair. "I can't do it anymore right now."
Keaton held him really tightly--in what he refers to as "the daddy grip"--snug against his chest. After several minutes the intensity of his crying lessened, but only slightly. After another few minutes, the decision was made: Keaton would give him a blessing.
In the dark bedroom I watched my husband lay my exhausted little boy in his crib and put his hands on his head to give him a father's blessing. It was the first time for both of them--Keaton bestowing, Jamison recieving--and it was very simple. Keaton asked Heavenly Father to help console him, so he could rest. It was short, but moving.
It was the first time I realized, without feeling a single pang of guilt or inadequacy, that I am not enough. I was never meant to do this alone.
This is how it was always meant to be. A father, a mother...humbly joined in the process of caring for these children, entrusted to us by God. Together seeking His guidance, asking for His blessings. Upon us...upon our children...
It took about a half hour before Jamison's crying finally softened and he slept, held protectively in his father's arms. Safe in his hands.
Safe in His hands.
This morning, after I snapped Jamison into his high chair and let Duncan outside, I noticed that the air outside looked like it was sparkling in the early morning light. It wasn't sparkles, though, it was a cloud of little flyaway seeds from the weed patch on the other side of our back fence. It was exquisite. I couldn't get a good shot of it, but every time a gust of wind came through it would whip up the seeds into the air and they would dip and swirl on the breeze, glittering as they went. I did try to capture the feeling of the moment in a few of these pictures.
After reading 
