Our youngest son was the quietest in the womb. “Have you felt the baby move today?” my nurses would ask at our prenatal appointments. “No,” I’d reply, “But that’s not unusual for him.”
That stillness did not last.
Our third baby is so wiggly that at times, he feels impossible to hold. He loves to “jump” on your lap as he holds tight to your fingers. On a three hour flight, my lap baby refused to nap serenely in our Ergo carrier as our others had. No, he wanted to be out and ready for action.
He started crawling at five months and pulling to stand at six. Now, you can find him happily cruising the furniture in our living room.
No, wait — he’s up the step and halfway down the hall.
Having an on-the-go baby has its benefits. Unlike our first daughter who cried even in arms, and our middle kid who was content as long as he was being held, this little guy is happy to explore on his own. He’ll even play contently in his crib when he wakes from a nap (which is lovely except when he wakes needing to be changed and I find his patience is actually preoccupation; he has been finger-painting in his own banana yellow poop).
Our real challenge comes during diaper and wardrobe changes. Have you ever struggled to pull fitted footie pajamas onto a reluctant cat? No need. You can come over and try to dress Noah.
He pushes. He pulls. One foot in and he pulls the other out. He protests laying on his back by immediately flipping onto his stomach and he’s off, wiggling for freedom at the end of the changing pad. The fall to the floor does not daunt him. It’s just one more daredevil stunt to tackle, and he’s very curious to know what going over the edge would feel like.
“Would you just hold still?” I find myself asking aloud. There is something about this moment of my son’s bare body wriggling in my hands as he yanks back an arm, flips to his tummy and lunges for the edge a third time. A little piece of grace, maybe.
And suddenly, that question isn’t for my son anymore.
It is a question for me.
“Will you just hold still?”
Noah’s only quiet time is when he is nursing. He waits until he is starving to let loose a banshee-like wail, and once on my chest, hunts frantically mouth-first like a truffle pig rooting out its prize. He latches, and instantly his body is still and his wailing goes quiet.
“Will you just hold still?” Our heavenly Father waits patiently for me to settle down, but I am too busy plunging ahead to the next thing. Like Wiley Coyote, I rush off the cliff before I realize I’m no longer on solid ground.
I am a yes or NOW person.
Like Wiley, I inevitably plummet.
Yet, somehow, God never loses patience with me. The invitation is always there, but unlike my frazzled impatience, his voice carries tone of amusement and sorrow:
“Will you just hold still?”
He offers rest and nourishment, and here I am, caught up in my whirlwind. The posture of my soul is not so much that of a nursing infant as it is the Tasmanian Devil.
“Will you just hold still?” he beckons. I can see the outstretched arm, and I long to take it. But I somehow lack the energy. Or the muscle memory. Or the will.
Taking that hand means stepping out of my cyclone. And sure, this cyclone wreaks havoc wherever it goes, but all the rubble means I don’t have to peer into the depths. I cling to chaos because when the cyclone stops, it will be time to clear all the clutter.
Be still and know that I am God.
I know that you are God. But I am just me.
Will I just hold still? Can I just hold still?
The answer is on the tip of my tongue.
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I’m in a wrestling match with our youngest daughter. She is and always has been a dream baby: restful, joyful, full of smiles and free of fits.
Until today.
At just shy of 19 months, she has decided on a zero-tolerance nap policy. She screams in my arms and flails with such force that I’m surprised she hasn’t given herself whiplash.
A younger me would have felt defeated by this show of force. Four kids in, and this is just Tuesday. I’m unperturbed by this exhaustion-induced fit. I know the signs; her little body is on overload. She just needs rest. I know that if I hold her long enough, she will surrender. Her resistance is futile.
I sing a soft lullaby, hoping to capture her attention. She screams louder. Sighing, I switch tunes, crooning out her favorite: the theme song to a 1980’s baby songs video from my husband’s childhood that has placated all of my children in their early years. The fashion is better than the music.
For a moment, she feigns disinterest, but I can tell this tactic is working. I repeat the refrain of this song I’ve employed countless times to subdue four babies over the years. Irritating as it is, the sweet relief of the silence that follows has imbued it with a sort of Pavlov’s effect on my psyche. My body begins to relax just before hers goes quiet.
I can see her eyelids begin to droop, head lulling forward with the slight rock of our chair. The fight is gone. No longer does she push against me. My patience has paid off. The resistance is gone, and she leans in to nurse. The stiffness leaves her body, and her weight settles against me comfortably.
I move to put her down just a hair too soon, and she protests. I wait, nursing her just a few moments longer.
In the quiet shadows of her room, I raise my eyes to the heavens and sigh. I let my own body go limp.
I surrender.
God has waited me out in these fitful years of my own flailing. He says to rest and be nourished. I am ready to receive, Lord. Not as I will, but as you will.
Just don’t put me down just yet.