Tummy Time

Dear Archer,

Since the 3rd day of your life I have been forcing you to endure several bouts of TUMMY TIME a day. You do your sessions on the quilt CL made you because it is full of contrast and pattern for your maturing newborn eyes.

Initially you were not a fan. Your lower lip popped out and the "mousehole" cry was heard. (Where your mouth is the shape of a mousehole. RE did it, too. It's the preferred shape of all pathetically fake Lawson cries.) I asked the doctor if I could just hold you on my chest and let you lift your head there. He said while that will strengthen your neck it will not help your back or arms or legs. Son, life will demand you be strong all over so I have thrust you to the floor in the name of Hans and Franz to pump *clap* you up. I can tolerate your frustrated whimpers because I know what is coming.

You are currently a 9-lb infant whose life consists of drinking milk, dreaming about milk, and crying for milk. The monotony does not bother you. However, my contented little piglet, I know how fast time flies and tomorrow you could be a pre-pubescent teen spraying Axe man fragrance on your peach fuzz while you dream of electric shavers and drivers licenses.

You have no idea what joys await you:

There are touchdowns and fly balls and frogs and fish and [eventually] the right girl to catch. And Tepanyaki shrimp if you aren't allergic like RE is.

There are roller coasters steeper than the 1200 East hill in Lehi to make your stomach flip-flop and your organs vibrate. This is called "exhilaration" and you may also get it from letterpressed paper, dark chocolate, imported cheese, cleaning products, things with scalloped edges, and sewing notions like I do.

There will be novels with inky, musty, yellow-edged pages to get lost in. Type will take you away and those stories will accompany you wherever you roam.

One night you might lie on the swaying dock at our cabin and fathom the number 1,000,000,000 because of the glittered pall and milky smear across the heavens. Hopefully the expanse and the quiet will also settle into your heart and confirm what you have been taught all your life...that you are a child of God. And when a boy knows who he really is, well, he's unstoppable.

Due to a slight obsession I also have a ton of wooden toys and peek-a-blocks for you. You will [hopefully] learn to use your imagination in the battery-free world I have created for you.

Life holds unlimited happiness and exploration for you. But first you must learn to hold up your head.

Love, Mom

Why do we have to live through hard things? Dr. Jonathan Sandberg said it beautifully in his essay on healing: "I have come to realize that my Savior cares more about my growth than He does about my comfort." The trials, tribulations, and tests of this earthly existence are no more than a cosmic "tummy time" to prepare us for eternal life. The Father has promised us all that He has; free room and board in His mansions on high, worlds without number, infinite inheritance, never-ending love. How can we possibly consider accepting such glories if we haven't first learned to love our neighbors (even the noisy renters that have six cats?), sacrifice (can I help you when it's a more convenient time for me?), exhibit self-control (you are stomping on my last nerve!), or bear one another's burdens (instead of focusing on myself)?  

 

My neighbor Crystal made me this quilt. She overly-apologized for the error in the yellow corner. Her toddler-aged daughter that helped her "make" the quilt (i.e. sprayed each square with water before it was ironed) put the pedal to the metal when mom wasn't looking and the resulting squiggle was too tiny of a stitch to be picked out. The squiggle is my favorite part of the quilt. It is a reminder to, like Crystal, let my little ones be involved in the important things I do. Side by side.

Photo lyric: "The Wood Song" by the Indigo Girls