I have noticed something about myself, my children, and this blog. I tend to write more about Ryan. And I tend to take more pictures of Sam. For the last few days I’ve been trying to analyze this phenomenon– why is this? Why does Ryan inspire my pen? Why does Sam inspire my eye? Is there even really a reason?
Five and a half years ago, when the doctor placed Ryan in my arms and his big eyes looked up at me in wonder, I began a journey of discovery. Unknown to me at the time, the son I had just delivered had inherited my personality– my tendency to give up too easily, my need to control all the stuff I can’t, my extreme desire to communicate pretty much everything that ever runs through my head. Poor, poor child. Maybe that’s why it has always been easy to write about him. And maybe, because he is always the first to do anything, I am always so captivated by his milestones that I immediately begin to form the words to describe him.
And then came Sam. Nearly four years ago now, they handed me this bundle of sweet baby with dark, dark hair. He was a beautiful baby. Everything about him was perfect, and sweet, and utterly photogenic. He was a little more difficult as a baby than Ryan had been, but he was still a pretty easygoing little boy. And he had his own, very unique personality.
Sam is one of those people who live most of their lives in a different universe than the rest of us. He is usually wrapped up in his own thoughts, his own imagination, perfectly happy to build with the blocks or just sit on his bed and think– at least until his brother comes in with his loud bossy ways and pops poor Sam’s fantasy bubble.
The problem with Sam is that I just don’t know what words to use to describe him. Ryan is bright, talkative, funny, outgoing, noisy. Sam is all those things. I could use the exact same words to describe Sam, but the two are nothing alike. I think that Sam is my dreamer. I think that as he grows we will discover an artistic side to him, if he can ever learn to sit still enough to be artistic. Sam is good with his hands, and I can envision him fixing cars and houses and being a “man’s man” and then coming home and secretly painting or drawing or taking beautiful photographs.
Or maybe not.
My children tend to surprise me with their abilities, with their quirks, with their ways of thinking and doing things when I just leave them to their own devices (after I put all the sharp objects out of reach, of course). My mind’s eye tends to see Ryan as my thinker and Sam as my doer, but I think because of that I often sell Sam short. He’s a very smart little guy. A very smart little guy who refuses to be put in a box and described in a few brief words.
I am sure that every mother imagines what her children will do as they get older. As kids, we dreamed those dreams for ourselves, and now we dream them for our children. There’s nothing wrong with dreaming, but in the end it doesn’t accomplish much except to fill a blog page with rambling.
What matters is that God has a plan for my children, and He is the one who is the Author of their futures, not me. Whatever my hopes and dreams and desires for these two precious boys may be, they are nothing compared to the plans that He has for them– plans which He actually has the power and means to bring to pass (unlike my plans, which involve multi-million dollar baseball contracts so that I can retire early).
This little person– this sweet, sensitive, bizarre, crazy, funny, adorable, indescribable little person– he has been given to me for a while to love and snuggle and reprimand and laugh at. But He really belongs to the Lord.
And there is something very comforting in that knowledge.