Midnight

Midnight and the startling sound of baby cries. The desperate painful kind that tell you your child needs you faster than you can get there. I fly upstairs and into his room. He is writhing in his bed and I scoop him into my arms, already cooing and soothing and hushing to comfort him as best I can. His little body is tense, too tense, and fear runs through me. Something is wrong and not nightmare-wrong. He quiets but still cries and whimpers in pain. The faint but distinct smell of diarrhea hit me as I entered the room but I only now register it. I carry him, his little arms still wrapped around my neck, head pressed to my cheek, into our bedroom and turn on the bathroom light. His body won't relax and he is in pain. I ask him and he tells me it's his tummy. I sit him on the toilet and expect the worst but a tiny bit of upset is all that is in his diaper. But it's been there awhile, likely since shortly after we put him to bed and I know this little boy has previously been seen at the hospital due to diaper rash, he is sensitive to it biologically, and emotionally. I use cool water and a baby washcloth to gently clean his bottom and even that makes him cry and flinch. I bring him bare butt to the bed and see the red welts that are hurting him so terribly and I blow cool air as I apply the ointment gently. He is tender but begins to relax finally. His daddy brought all the supplies I requested and had returned from my second set of commands with the sippy cup of milk and small dose of Motrin I need for him as he is still trembling from the pain. I tenderly close a fresh diaper around him and lay him on his side, on my side of the bed. His eyes are dilated and his breathing is shaky but he drinks his milk and takes his medicine without hesitation. This whole time I have cooed and sighed and told him he will be okay and how brave he is and how I love him and every time he replied, "I love you too mama" even in his pain. Three months ago he didn’t speak. I hold him. Partially to keep him on his side, mostly to comfort him and myself, and I look into his eyes. He trusts me. He loves me. He feels safe with me. He needs me. I am his mother. He is calm, smiling a little now, sleepy eyes settling closed now that he can relax. I kiss him, breathe him in, rub his back, kiss him again. His ears, his nose, his eyes, his fingernails, the wisp of his hair, his belly button, him. I had no part in making him but he is mine. As he drifts to sleep the reality of my baby being in pain hits me, as it always does once they are out of it. Adrenaline and fear and love keep me focused on them but once they are okay my brain processes that in those moments I would have made myself bleed to stop their pain, lost a limb for life to stop 30 seconds of their tears. I need to cry and vomit and holler but I just refocus on them. It's no different when they don't share your DNA. If anything I owe this boy more. He has already been done so wrong. A kind of wrong most of us can't imagine and few would dare to. I can't make up for the people who failed him but I have to try. Every day for the rest of my life. No one had better ever question if he is my “real” son. There will never be an asterisk next to my title as his mom. Even if the courts send him to someone else and I die never seeing him again, he will always be my son and I will always be his mama. I've had nightmares where they take him and woken unable to breathe. Truly gasping for a breath like he’s already gone. I won't let myself think of that happening but everyday...I think of it happening. I repeat, "I will do everything I can for him, for as long as I can do for him" but add "please let that be forever." -
He lies next to me as I type this. His body pressed to my hip so he knows I'm here. His breathing heavy and steady.

He is a gift to me. To our family. He is hope and promise and goodness and bravery and strength and love.

He is my son.

His name is Hunter.