Dear Henry,
This is a letter to you, from me (your lovin’ mama) that I am putting in your baby book. It concerns a very unique season in your life that is about to be over (if not tomorrow than at least very, very soon) and one day the details of this season will not have the sharp focus that they do this evening. And while I have not loved every moment of these last seven weeks (seven weeks, two days, six hours) — they have been sweet, because you have been at the center of each of every one of them. That is what makes it a bearable, worthwhile tiny little cross to bear. Jesus has given us the grace, but our overwhelming love for you helps a lot too.
Lord Henry, my sweet little baby boy, you broke your leg. This is what I tell people, all the people everywhere we go who ask what happened, what on *earth* happened to that poor baby? This is what I say, everywhere we go:
He broke his femur, I say (pointing to my femur). We were at a park, a plantation we go every Mother’s Day, and our dog (our little 30 pound dog) was on a very long tether. I threw a ball and off she went and Henry got caught by the tether. He landed hard, his leg splayed at a funky angle (I say this every time, and then try to fashion my leg at a funky angle). We went to the ER and found out he broke his leg. He got his cast the next morning.
People tell me, Henry, that breaking a femur is the most painful break a person can have. And when I hear that it makes me cry, not too much but enough. I am so sorry you have had to endure this, but I am so proud of how well you have managed. Maybe it’s just your age, maybe it’s your personality, maybe it’s grace from all the people praying for you — but over these last seven weeks you have not complained at all. You have not screamed or grabbed at the cast or done anything to show any hint of agitation. Yes, you have tried to get in the pool (when we drop the big boys off for swim team). And your vocabulary has grown to include words like “ow” and “it hurts” and “stuck! I stuuuuck!” But mostly you have accepted this burden, and Daddy and I are amazed because you don’t necessarily realize that being in this cast won’t last forever. But here you are, dealing with it all.
There are some funny things about a Spica cast. On one of the first days you had the cast, I took you out for a walk. We went to see your friend Judah and his mommy gave you a cupcake. You ate that cupcake, enjoyed every little morsel that fell in your mouth. When we got home (about an hour later, because we took some looooong walks), I changed your diaper and out fell a handful of crumbs. They had shimmied down the front of your cast and out the other end!
Last night, you did not sleep well at all. You were awake from midnight until five this morning! I don’t know what was going on, but at some point I changed your diaper and discovered a Scrabble tile! Where did that come from? I’m wondering what else we will find when this cast comes off.
This has not been an easy trial, Henry, but you have been such a good, good boy. I am proud of you, because you don’t know how to count the days (and hours and minutes) off a calendar and even so, you are content. You are happy to have your brothers surrounding you as you hold court in your bright red beanbag. You ask for very little — you want to watch “jay tay” (jelly telly on the computer), you want the occasional lollipop, and you are happy to play with whatever toys we set next to you. Lately you are asking for Nerf guns, and you will shoot and then wait for a brother to help you reload and shoot again.
You are a dear, my Henry boy. I’m looking forward to grabbing your whole, healed body (ever so gently) and holding it next to me. No heavy cast. No clunky bar. No awkward angles. Just you. I don’t want to forget this season, but I am happy we are about to leave it behind.
