Ari lion.

Two nights ago I stood and laughed the kind of laugh that makes your eyes disappear behind cheeks as Ari “walked” behind a neighbor’s large toy dinosaur—fully equipped with lights, music, and handles for his chubby hands to grasp.  I didn’t laugh at the ridiculousness of the dinosaur but rather at the sight of Ari, finally “in the game.”  He has been waiting for months to have the chance to chase older brother Jack and, equipped with his newly found plastic dino walker, he was in.  I expected to see some version of baby boy pride and independence on his face but instead he babbled loudly, looked back to check on us bystanders, and lost himself in a fit of chuckles whenever he realized Jack was within a few paces.

Ari Ray will turn 1 in a few days, and he has softened many since we first met him at the tail end of last September.  Ari wants to be in the game not because he might win or score or wear something flashy.  He just wants to be around people.  He wants to be held, preferably with his balmy blonde head shoved as close as possible.  This has taken some getting used to, as Jack was an independent soul from the beginning.  I would have to invite myself to play with Jack and literally grab him from his warm bed long after he had fallen asleep so I could steal a few moments of holding him close. I love Jack for his bright, stubborn will, and I love Ari for his unhindered desire to be loved and held.

There is so much to say about Jack.  That little guy and I are so similar.  We get one another.  So, yes, that means we fight, too.  (Greg has, on occasion, had to remind me to “get along” with 3-year-old Jack.)  Jack is curious and determined.  He wants to understand the world…on his own.  I respect his earnestness and love for routine & rhythm.  And all the while I am learning that Ari doesn’t need or want the same things as Jack did at one.  Ari wants to be held, and he will reach those chubby arms out and squawk until you hold him.  This has forced me to put things down and to admit that asking for embrace, whether two or twenty or more, is not a sign of weakness but rather of strength and character and courage.  When I hold this strong soft boy with eyes the color of bark in autumn, my body—so used to bracing itself against pain—courageously gives way to comfort.  I dig my face deep into the folds of his neck to take in the smells of lavender soap and carrots, and I lessen, loosen, undo, untie, and risk needing and being needed.  Ari has unraveled something in my rigid body, rigid self, rigid soul.

Happy birthday, sweet boy.  I named you after a lion and prayed for you to have courage.  You have courage, indeed, but in a way that awes me.  May we all find a brand of courage that is softer & delights in another’s embrace.