Dee Dee

I pull the warm clothes out of the laundry--a menial, routine task.  My hand reaches in and I feel the soft, silky blanket affectionately referred to by my youngest as, "Dee Dee," and my breath catches unexpectedly in my throat as my body freezes as if suspended in time.  I recall yesterday's conversation with James.

"James, will you please throw me one of your Dee Dee's so I can wash it?" I asked the nine year old who was thoughtfully constructing a blanket fort.  He has two identical blankets who have worked tireless shifts comforting their blonde, blue-eyed little boy.

James was reluctant to let go of the blanket-wall he was trying to secure and said,  "Oh, I don't sleep with those anymore.  You can just pack them away."

I was caught off guard.  I couldn't bear to have Dee Dee filed away in the basement maze of plastic containers that contain seasonal items, clothes that are waiting for another growing body, and a few special toys and clothes that I just cannot part with.

"Oh.  How about I wash them and then put them in your dresser in case you change your mind and need one of them?"

James hesitated, perhaps considering if indeed he is ready to part with Dee Dee.  Then, seeing my troubled eyes, he concedes, "Okay, you can put them in my dresser, but I won't need them anymore."

Now stroking the surprisingly unworn blanket in my hands, memories flip through like catalog pages.  Baptism.  The ER visit when he burned his hand on the fireplace as a toddler.  Rocking my sick little boy in the sleepy early morning hours.  Reading stories.  Pretending to make Dee Dee kiss his giggling face.  I'm overcome and for a moment, I cannot let go.

The title of a friend's recently written article stands boldly in my mind, The Brevity of Childhood.  The days seem countless and unending.  And then one day, life shifts as if shaken a bit by an earthquake tremor.  I look around and nobody seems to notice but me.  My child needs me a little less.  But how is today really all that different than yesterday?  It isn't.  But I know where all of this is headed.

The oldest of mine is twenty.  He's incredible: independent, talented, hard working, godly, wise, and  independent.  Did I say that already?  This is what we all want for our children.  This is truly an abundantly blessed answer to thousands of prayers spoken boldly and whispered desperately.

Christian doesn't really need me anymore, at least, not the way he once did.  Sure, he needs money, he needs to discuss his plans for the future, and he still wants my affirmation and approval as a sign that he is indeed plotting a good course.  But he can navigate by himself and I deeply respect that.  Every once in awhile, our paths meet up, but even then, I see my little boy is now a man and my role is drastically different than it once was.

I fervently believe that each one of my four children are given to me as tiny baby birds.  I hold them tenderly and securely in my hand.  As they grow, I gradually open my hand a little at a time until all my hand does is provide a platform where upon the chick can rest.  When they are strong enough, each will launch and fly.  This is the goal to which I purposely work as I teach them Scripture and how to be kind and merciful, how to resolve conflict, how to figure fractions and detect incongruity and when to hold on and when to let go.

I return to the moment that has caused this storm within me.  I affectionately stroke Dee Dee and take a deep breath to steady my soul.

All that I am is temporary.  I am working myself out of an identity, if my identity is based on what I do and how people see me.  This very thought causes despair.  I remind myself that I am a child of God set upon this earth to love, to bring healing, relief, and to care for His children.  This is my identity, and it is secure.

It is time.  I take out the blankets and fold them gently and hug them to my chest.  I realize that this moment is sacred.  I place it gently in my heart next to the very last time I nursed my baby, the day Em and I packed away her baby dolls, the sunny summer afternoon when I let go of Timothy's wobbling bicycle and watched him pedal away, the cloudy spring I stood helplessly in the driveway watching Christian drive away in his car, alone for the first time.

Nobody else felt the ground shake, but I did.  I steady myself and feel the ache in my hand that happens every time I open it a bit more, further exposing the growing chick resting there.  "Thank you, Dee Dee, for being there when he needed you," I say aloud.  I blink away a tear and boldly make the decent into the cellar to help the loved blankets find their place among other carefully tucked away memories.

I remind myself that today really isn't all that different than yesterday.  This is my consolation, and it's enough to help me move on.