My youth ministry roots will betray me when I say this reflux thing has been like boiling a frog. If he'd woken up one morning, stayed awake the entire day, and screamed from 2:30 until he collapsed, exhausted, at 8 that night, we would have been sitting in the doctor's waiting room at 8 am the next morning. It didn't work that way. It snuck up on us, whittling away first at his routine, then at my sanity. By the time he started the medication I was a mess. I kept thinking, Silas's first year is like a crucible. By the time we come out of this thing, our bond will be that of soldiers surviving war, rather than a mother and her baby. This thought was followed by guilt, as I would inevitably remember how much fun I had with Asher as a baby, how inexpressibly happy I was all the time. I love Silas more than I can say, but this? It's not fun.
Then something important happened. Monday night we were sitting at the dinner table. Asher was acting characteristically silly, when Silas started cracking up, with that open-mouth, expectant giggle that adults will humiliate themselves to hear. For most of dinner, Asher would make a certain noise, Silas would laugh, and Brian and I would laugh at them both. Then it occurred to me - that's the first time he's ever done that. He's seven months old, and checking off his milestones dutifully, but not ever flirting or cutting up. He's not having fun either.
Because he hasn't felt well in a long time. But praise Jesus and Zantac, he's feeling better every day. And the result is that, for the first time in his short life, I've heard him laugh every day this week. I love this little boy more than I can say, whether he's crying or not, whether he sleeps or not. Whether it's fun or not.
But when he feels better, so do I.