I mentioned before that I never again experienced the emotional upheaval that accompanied Ephraim’s first few weeks.
While that’s true, I did come home from the hospital with our new little Clive, and after introducing the brothers to one another, I handed the baby off to someone, went upstairs, and cried.
I cried because knew things would never be the same. It was a whole new chapter in our family’s book, and while we were ecstatic, there was a tiny bit of mourning, as well. But I blame the tears 100% on hormones, and felt immensely better after shedding them. I came back downstairs and that was that.
From the very start, Clive was different.
His was the pregnancy I discovered the earliest. While with Ephraim’s pregnancy I was in denial for at least a week before finally caving and taking a test, with Clive I was immediately suspicious that something was up.
For one thing, Ephraim quit nursing the week I conceived. He simply refused to do it. He was nine months old, and while we rallied somewhat and would eventually make it to twelve months breastfeeding, those last three months were a power struggle. I believe we both breathed a sigh of relief when we were done.
There were a couple of other factors that led me to take a test. Almost immediately a faint positive appeared–and I wasn’t even four week pregnant yet. I went to the doctor and was given a prescription for my low progesterone. I assume this is what went wrong with my first pregnancy that was lost to miscarriage.
I was so busy with Ephraim that I remember little of the first few months of Clive’s pregnancy. I remember being easily angered. I remember my morning sickness starting on Christmas Day, when my aunt had made two lovely soups for lunch and I couldn’t eat either of them. I remember wondering if I should worry and then just not really ever worrying because I never got around to it.
As a baby, Ephraim was a bit of a loner, protesting displays of affection and usually quite content to be playing on his own.
When Clive came, I was frequently perplexed by his moments of restlessness; how he would fuss and fuss when, for all I could see, he was perfectly fine: fed, rested, warm, comfortable. I can still remember the day when I realized he was restless because he wanted me. I hadn’t had a baby like that yet, and as an infant I carried the same preferences that Ephraim did, so my ignorance was understandable, though still humiliating.
It seems that every time we play outside, Clive is restless and dissatisfied with the activities presented (unless there is water available.) He almost always comes to land in a lap, finally content.
Spiritually, I am trying to learn to be like Clive. There are many times throughout the days, the weeks, that I am dissatisfied and restless for what seems like no reason. If only I could learn to seek out my Father, to be still with Him.
Mr. Clive has a tiny little obsession.
Can you guess what it is?
And then I’m supposed to sing the song from the opening sequence.
Once a week, we watch a movie. Ephraim has a few favorites. Clive has one request: “‘Queen? ‘Queen? ‘Queen??”