Solstice birth

Today is the darkest day of the year.

The gloom settled in long before the sun rose and it looks like we're in for yet another gray, drizzly day here.

But Henry rose before the sun and he brought us voluminous light.



I stumbled sleepily into the nursery to retrieve him and he greeted me with a wide, eager grin while standing sturdily in his crib.




I stacked some pillows on his plush carpet and sunk my head into them while he sat near me and began to finger his toys.



I tried to doze, but Henry babbled gleefully.



"Happy birthday, baby," I managed to mutter from somewhere inside my scratchy throat.

He gently laid his fuzzy blonde head under my neck on my pillow, then popped up and smiled. He did this half a dozen times and I felt my soul instantly warm and wake.



The alarm sounded in the room next to us and Papa joined in the early birthday greetings.

We sat in the dark silence of the house and soaked in the enormity of the occasion.

Just a year ago we were waiting in a different house (two houses ago, in fact) for a newborn to arrive. Today we celebrate the completion of his first year of life.



I remember last year's solstice. It wasn't raining, but it was cool and brisk.

I was in slow, steady labor, awaiting a birth day.

I remember leaving for the birth center around noontime in the throes of transition labor, and I was blinded by a white sky as we drove to the place where we would have our son.



The delivery was quick and painful, yet beautiful and serene all at once.

Henry came just after lunchtime and when we headed home as a family just a handful of hours later, the blinding white sky had already turned to deepest black.



Christmas lights and traffic lined the way home. I felt cold and numb. I'm sure Henry felt the same way. There was healing and growth ahead for us both and many days of everything new for him, for me, for our entire family.



Every day brings both light and darkness. Depending on the time of year they contain more or less of each.

I have felt both light and darkness with a deeper intensity over the past year than ever before as we learned to thrive as a family of five through two household moves, the start of Kindergarten and lots of family separation.



Babies bring light, there's no doubt about this. They also require a tremendous amount of time, patience, nourishment and self sacrifice. Henry is no exception.



As I looked into the depth of his dark eyes this morning, and fingered his bright golden hair, I saw all of this past year in a snapshot.

It was gritty and refining. It was joyful and sweet. It was monumental.



I can't say I loved every minute, but I'm thankful for all of it. Every blessed bit.