My first child, Jackson, was the "perfect" baby. He was an excellent sleeper, he breezed through teething, and follows instructions as well as an adult. We never even had to childproof our home.
And then came Henry.
Henry was born almost six weeks premature. His lungs were not fully developed, so he had to be sent to the NICU, immediately after birth. In recovery from an emergency c-section, I could not see him right away. My mom was able to take a peek at him, while the nurses took his vitals. Henry used what use he had of his lungs to scream angrily each time a nurse touched him. "He'll be fine," my mom assured me, "He's mean... he's definitely a survivor."
She was right. Eight days later, Henry came home from the NICU, as good as new... and just as mean. It was as if he held a grudge against everyone for the extended hospital stay. He did not like having company and he preferred to sleep either in my arms or right next to me in our bed. He hated baths and it was a chore just to get him to laugh.
Henry began walking at fourteen months and my life and my house will never be the same. He pulls leaves off of my plants, has torn two tablecloths, and has broken six of my dishes. He eats crayons, dirt, and the occasional rubber band. Now, at two years old, Henry has developed a more pleasant disposition, but we have dubbed him, "Houdini." He can escape any gate, break childproofed locks, and can scale our furniture with the agility of a monkey. There is never a moment's peace, unless he's napping. My husband has accused me of having a secret rendezvous with the Tasmanian Devil, resulting in Henry's conception.
You would think that after having a "perfect" child the first time around, I would be overwhelmed to have such an active little boy. Yes, I am overwhelmed. I am overwhelmed with joy to have this little monster, who leaves banana hand prints on my clothes, gives me snotty kisses, and giggles sweetly as I rock him to sleep.
When Jackson was eight weeks old, he began sleeping through the night. When Henry was eight weeks old, we discovered that he has a congenital heart defect, pulmonary valvular stenosis. We take him to a pediatric cardiologist at Johns Hopkins every six months. We await the appointment at which they tell us that it is time for surgery. As Henry grows, the pressure in his heart will become too much for his pulmonary valve to handle. When that day comes, he will need to receive a replacement valve. Since he is so young, it is difficult to tell how many surgeries he will have to have or if they will be successful. It may mean limited activities or sports. Although his heart condition may not be life threatening, other factors with Henry's health make his future uncertain. We will know that his heart is beginning to not function properly when his activity and energy levels start to decline.
So, when I exercise patience as he jumps on the couch or throws a rock and breaks a window, don't judge me. And when he runs from me, holding an important piece of my mail or flushes my favorite bracelet down the toilet, don't accuse him of being a "bad boy." His daily antics only prove to me that his little heart is beating as it should and reminds me of how precious life is.
Henry has filled my world with adventure, taught me patience, and has given me an appreciation of every breath my children take. Yes, Jackson, my first born, was an angel. But then came Henry, who made our family complete.
