I often say that our youngest son, four years old, marches to the beat of a different drum. He’s the baby of the family. Born a mere minute after his twin sister, he remains somewhat of a mystery to me. He’s faced many trials in his young life already: a premature birth, an apnea monitor, an adverse reaction to immunizations resulting in a seizure disorder, a misshapen head requiring a corrective helmet, enlarged tonsils that interrupted sleep, removal of said tonsils that resulted in a brief hospitalization, and so on.
Despite said trials, he is my happy child, my cuddler, the one who pats my face gently, the one who seeks me out regularly just for a quick snuggle and then it’s back to playing. He requires near constant physical touch.
And rhythm, oh does he have rhythm. I often wonder if he will be a conductor someday because the first body part to catch the beat is usually a hand. He loves music, and he loves it loud. His whole body is one with the cadence.
Out of all four children, he’s the one I have the least clue about. Who will he grow up to be, this young boy? What drives him? When I think of him, I think of words like smile and touch and laughter. He’s the son who gets crazy silly when he’s sleepy. He’s the one who laughs at weird noises. I once entertained him all the way through a grocery store trip by repeating a single phrase in a weird voice. “Do it again, mommy. Again!” And peals of laughter rang out all through the store.
To say I love him just isn’t sufficient. He’s oh-so-different, unique, precious to me. He doesn’t even have to do anything special to make me love him. I just love him for who he is, even without completely understanding him, this boy who marches to the beat of a different drum. My love for him is overwhelming and fierce. I would die for this boy.
And that’s how God feels about all of His children.
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