Roots

Though the rest of life might feel like trying to ride a tornado, one thing never ceases to be true: babies are a steady sweetness (granted, I've not yet had a colicky infant...). For someone like me, there is nothing quite so comforting and grounding as a babe in arms. It was true when the babies were my nieces and nephews, and it holds just as true now.

Enoch is just about as sweet as they come. He is plump and snuggly and easygoing. He smiles all the time. He has two modes: brow-furrowed seriousness as he figures out the world and chummy, gummy grins. He's found his hands and slobbers all over them happily. Thank God, the digestive issues I was dreading toned back down instead of increasing and he's quite comfortable in his body most of the time. He squirms and kicks and wiggles and tries to talk and it's the cutest thing. And Daddy tortured his first giggle out of him just tonight with lots of tickling.

Boy, do I love you Enoch Abel. In the middle of this tilt-a-whirl life you are pure delight.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Commence blurry, unedited photo fest (who has time for fiddling anymore?!).

I'm sitting here realizing it's hard to know how to blog honestly five kids deep, especially when my oldest just turned 6 this month. If I write about how beautiful family life is, it is true but misleading. If I write about how hard and exhausting this season is, it is also true but misleading. It's both, always. It's beautiful. It's crushing. You can feel yourself being obliterated, but you also know in your bones that it's good. That being obliterated actually means you're changing more into the shape God wants you to be, and it's better and truer than who you were before.

Life is whizzing by; none of the things that made it go so fast before Enoch have disappeared, and his presence has added more fullness to each day. The kids are fed and loved and taught; books are read; conversations abound. Feet are muddied and pants are torn and brownie-mint-blueberry tea is made at the play kitchen. Bikes are ridden down hills and the baby is snuggled a great deal. Meanwhile, I'm experiencing the growing pains of trying to learn how to live at rest with a constant tornado of activity and laundry and creative messmaking that there is absolutely no way to keep up with anymore. I've always been a manager--I manage life, see, and all the things always get done. Except they don't anymore; I've crossed the threshold. No matter how hard I work or how organized I am, I'm simply incapable of meeting my previous standards. Finite. Worn out. In over my head.

There is so much to be grateful for--but who knew that slowing down and breathing deeply enough to sit in gratitude, to truly give thanks when your personality is under fire and sleep never feels like enough (never is enough), would be such a hard lesson? Perfectionism dies hard, I'm afraid. I don't know how to let go of things, or what things are even the ones to let go of. (The easy one is a nice neat house. That one's obvious, even if it's not my favorite.)

And so here we are in this very moment. I have a snuggly baby sleeping on my lap, beautiful and wonderfully made and a cause for my deep thanks. I have a husband tearing the house apart and leaving trails in his wake as he pours more hard work into our home, improving it bit by bit by bit (current project: moving the office to the laundry room and the laundry room to the basement so that another bedroom is opened up). I'm surrounded by the happy sounds of busy kids, and sometimes the sounds of their conflict which needs my intervention. I'm giving up our homeschooling routine to write about it all, which almost certainly is more of a struggle for me than it would be for most. It is good. And hard. So life goes, yes?

But this post is meant to be about Enoch. The world he just entered is a complex one, but he doesn't know it yet. He just knows that it is good to be fed and snuggled, good to be kissed and to learn the shape of your family's faces. Good to have a mama to walk the floors with you when you hurt and a daddy to give you prickly-faced affection even if it makes your eyes go squinty. And it is good, all of it.

Enoch was born with a nice bit of hair (which has since receded amusingly) and delightfully squishy cheeks. He is barrel-chested and sturdy-limbed with a startling amount of fine blond hair on his shoulders and belly and thighs. He is placid and sweet; a perfectly snuggly baby, not one of those who was born impatient because he can't walk yet. He started smiling at me 2 weeks in and strikes Rundy and I both as someone who will grow into a gentle giant. He favors Tadhg in his looks, but alas, the past week or so it has seemed more and more likely that he'll favor him in his digestive troubles, too, poor little guy. The other children still line up to hold him. He fits into our family just right, and we are all so, so glad he's here. Having a new child never gets old, not really. Not when you learn more and more how much they are each their own person, and how quietly wonderful it is to get to know them as the months go by. Enoch is the fifth, but I no less often have moments of catching my breath at his preciousness.

So welcome, son. We love you deep and wide.

<><><><><><><><><>

The Officially Official Photos from the day he was exactly 1 month: