Sweetest Olu of The Universe

You were a groove in my heart, joy, lightness, and your beauty lit me up from the inside out. I was terrified when I got word of your impending arrival. Three under three? How crazy fertile were your father and I? We looked at each other and I was pregnant. Well, maybe we did a little more than just looking.  But, I digress. Baby boy, you rocked us, but in the sweetest way. You were my most painful, but quickest, and most definitely my funniest labor. We had our whole team roaring with laughter and love. That’s the way it’s been with you, Olu. Just laughter and love. You’ve got your Daddy’s smile, his unforgettable signature. I watched the video of your birth the other day. I watched you come through my birth canal into this world. I could feel my panic when I asked the doctor why you weren’t crying. “Is he okay?” I asked repeatedly. But, you just laid there. They put you at my breast and you gazed up at me never releasing a single cry. They took you from me and you wailed. We all cheered with excitement. Relief settled all over me because, you know, you were good. You hollered all night long and I wanted to literally KILL your father because he slept soundly beside me while I struggled to rest and care for you. I was fucking tired. Like, Olu, your labor was sooooo painful. Anyways, now you’re two years old and you haven’t decided to speak yet. Everyone’s all speech delay, possible autism spectrum, and I’m working to sort out all of the jargon and to see you, my Love. To feel your truth and honor your experience. You are so brilliant, and loving. You give the sweetest hugs and the most tender lingering kisses and I just want to drown out all of the medical shit and just let you be. But, everyone’s all, early intervention and lalalalalalalaaaaaaa. I’m an educated woman, self educated, but, your Daddy, I mean, medicine is his whole life. So, somewhere between Mommy’s soul and spirit and Daddy’s medical and academic expertise you exist and you thrive and you will continue to thrive. It’s hard to silence the sirens in my head when I hear shit like, 25% speech delay and possible social delays. Because, I see you. I believe that your voice is there. It’s coming. You deserve the right to your own journey and your own truth, and I don’t want to force you outside of your comfort zone. Today, you are my beautiful, twenty-six month old Olu. You love blocks, your brother and sister, bananas, jumping on the bed, dancing, and toy vehicles. Whatever may come, we will rise and we will thrive and we will love you.