Maybe it’s just the oxytocin talking, but I have to say: I love this kid.

Not an earth-shattering revelation from a mother, but if I’m being honest, I have to admit to a level of fear beforehand; fear that even after he arrived, I’d be scraping my emotional depths for something other than exhaustion or resentment. And in the early days, after The Husband pulled up in the turnaround and collected The Kid and me from the wheelchair and we left the warm embrace of the hospital, my emotional landscape rivaled Hiroshima: constant tears and feelings of inadequacy; the annoying liar in the back of my mind questioning, “What have you done?”

Things have leveled off a bit. Though when I see a commercial touting Caribbean vacations or watch a travel show devoted to Paris or read an article about the wines of Spain, I turn to TH and we grieve just a little, then make promises and a list.

Not for nothing, we apparently have Baby Extraordinaire on our hands. He has backed off to one night feeding, and I’ve even gotten to the point of enjoying that: bonding and whispers in the dark; being privy to wee- hour revelations like the winner of the Iowa caucus. He rarely cries, and then only if he loses his paci or is dealing with his usual extreme gas (sorry, Kid–it’s genetics). We spend most of our time around the house, but when we do go out, his car seat is apparently laced with Ambien because he strolls through Target or Barnes and Noble with nary a peep. Right now, he’s lounging in his Pack ‘n Play beside me, dreaming about chasing rabbits and letting me write. And yes, I am knocking on wood with one hand and typing with the other.

One of the best parts of it all is, he has partnered with God in the theme of proving me gloriously wrong about so much. To wit, here are some things I never imagined saying/thinking before TK arrived:

Buddy, you have GOT to quit letting go of my boob!

Is it normal for his poop to be this green? It looks like seaweed.

Hold on–let me tuck your wiener in!

Dammit, I’m leaking milk on the floor again.

How cute are those little balls?

We have a rhythm to our days now, the series of feedings every three hours interspersed with naps and book-guided periods of wakefulness, but I find that no matter how well things are going, that ever-present need for approval follows me doggedly around, a relic from my extended childhood that must constantly be answered with vigilant grace. There are my constant questions to The Sis, which she (somewhat) patiently listens to, usually responding with a variation of, “Stop worrying. Everything is fine.” I even went to the extreme of hauling his seven-pound frame, along with the drugged car seat and stroller, to Northside Hospital in twenty-degree temps so that I could hear a lactation consultant tell me the same thing (thank you, Cigna and nipple trauma codes). But in the moments of quiet, when I am still enough for grace to attend me and truth to rise to the top, I remember that we–the three of us–are exactly where we are meant to be (even if, regrettably, that is not in a vineyard in Spain). Not to get all Tebow on your asses, but I do believe that God chose us to be TK’s parents. No one else would do; all our qualities and imperfections are ideally suited for him to allow his story to be told. Conveniently, such a belief affords me blissful freedom: no matter what I do, something bigger holds all this together beyond my ability to screw it up. And though, these days, quality control is minimal (feed, burp, sleep; lather, rinse, repeat), I know one day there will be the back-and-forth of relationship, of love offered in a million ways, of mistakes made and grace required; and hopefully I will still be admittedly weak enough then to hold his hand, look upward, and wait for grace to rain down once again.