Sometimes I forget.
In the midst of his robust toddler boyness, I forget how small he once was, how fragile his tiny body was, how hard he has fought to be here. I forget he was kept alive for months by machines pumping life-saving heart medicines into him, just willing his heart to beat stronger, to sustain him one more day. I forget.
In the midst of him clinging to me, demanding to be picked up and carried for the hundredth time, I forget how empty my arms once were and how my heart ached, reaching out to hold a child who couldn't be held, as he lay sedated and fighting for his life in a tiny infant warmer in a sterile ICU room. I forget.
In the midst of morning chaos when both the kids are driving me absolutely nuts fighting over every little thing and I keep having to separate them, I forget how our family was split apart, how my arms couldn't reach to hold both my children at once, how they were a city away from one another. How I cried for days on end, just aching to have them both under my roof at the same time. How I worried the day would never come. I forget.
Sometimes, in the bliss of normal life, I forget.
But not today.
Because today marks the 2-year anniversary of the day we handed our sweet boy over to have his tiny chest cut open and his heart fixed for the 3rd time in 7 short months.
The morning of surgery...
The day after...
Today, we celebrate our son, how far he's come, his strength and determination. And we praise God for His provision for our son.
But sometimes, in this blissful Glenn stage life, I forget how far he's come, how far we've all come. Praise God for the blissful moments where we forget. Praise God, because, in those moments, it means that my son is more than a heart warrior; it means my son can just be a boy, dirty, scraped knees and all.
Which really, is all I ever wanted for him.