Hello Henry - A Welcome to Henry Who is Now Five

Hello Henry,
You’re late.

You were supposed to get here nine days ago at the latest. You’ve been in the outside world now for eight hours. I feel as if I’ve put in a full day’s work but it was your mother (and father) who did the real work. Still, I feel sapped by adrenaline.

When your father looked at you and said to your mother, “Call him Henry?” it seemed the perfect name to fit your little face. You’re a stocky little fellow, all 8 pounds, 10 ounces and twenty-one inches of you. I expected a more angular baby with big elbows and knees, judging by the sudden and frequent mole-like scurryings your limbs made under the cover of your mother’s belly.

When I think of the name Henry, I think it should mean, “Active,” “Latecomer,” “One Who Wrestles with His Own Limbs,” or “One Who Dislikes Confined Spaces Yet Remains Attached to Them.” During much of your mother’s pregnancy it seemed as if you couldn’t wait to get out, your elbows, knees, feet, and hands pushing against your mother’s organs. “Ooommmphh!” she’d say as her belly lit up with movement that made it look like it was an entity apart from her, a progressively larger beach ball filled with an active puppy. As time passed and there was still no sign of you, it became apparent that you were not really in that much of a hurry. I began to think of your confinement as a train ride. All you needed was on board. There was a food a-plenty, adequate seating, and wonderfully soothing rhythms.

After attempting to meet you at the train station on two earlier occasions only to discover that somehow our lines had crossed, you didn’t have your ticket, or that our schedules were out of sync, we were thrilled to hear that you were finally on your way. You had one foot poised for the platform.

At 7:30 AM, I was dressed for navigating the tractor while Devid, your uncle, operated the backhoe. (When you’re bigger, we’ll let you sit on the tractor). It was a Sunday and I had just plopped Boo, the dog, onto the back seat of the truck when the phone rang and we heard that you were coming. In the excitement of the moment, I left your blessing way bead on the night table at home and didn’t have it at your birth. Although it didn’t show up that well, I had dabbed different colors of paint onto an acorn. Blue for peacefulness, green for hope, purple because I wanted your mama to feel like a queen, and some glitter to show that sometimes—though not apparent at first glance—you can always find some sparkles to punctuate regular life with hope and happiness. The acorn itself was for patience. It takes a long time for an acorn to grow into an oak. The bit about the acorn was really for your mama, who has a tendency to expect too much of herself too fast and too perfectly.

When I painted the blessing way bead some months before you were born, I dreamed you as a girl. You were a tiny-boned, green-eyed little girl wearing a soft-laundered, shoulder-crossed summer dress filled with light. But it’s January. Wintertime. Why did I envision you in the summer? My mind had slipped ahead to summertime, to a time of glorious drawn-out daylight ending with the soft dying of light and the gathering of Dragonflies at Dusk, like the name of one of your Grandma Susan’s stamp sets.

But here it is in one of the traditionally coldest months in North Carolina and your finally show up—not a girl at all, but a boy! A beautiful January Henry. I was counting on you to brighten up the drearies of a gray winter. You were going to bring the feel of fleeting sunshine on our upturned faces. You were going to make buttercups appear through the snow. And you did! Somehow you managed to clutch the actual sunshine in your little fist. January 9, 2005, like the days preceding it, reached a sunny high of almost 70 degrees and was as lovely as the first day of the most beautiful and awaited spring.

You’re better than I envisioned you.

Welcome, little Henry.

With love,
Your Aunt Renee (AKA Née Née)