smile

Baby Greg smiled at me this morning.

It was at the end of a long night shift, the last three hours of which I had spent with him nestled in my arms, trying to get him to sleep. He, as usual, was fighting. It's what he does best, really, with a strength that belies the twiglike construction of his frame. He'd managed to pop himself off the CPAP mask four or five times in rapid succession, and so I decided that he could have a break. I released his face, stuck some oxygen in his nose and settled in to pat his bony little back. He figured it was a good enough deal, and decided to stop flailing around.

At shift change, when all the new nurses were trickling in, sleepy-eyed, I was sitting on the end of his bed, replacing his soother when he dropped it and suctioning out his throat when he choked. He was propped up on a throne of blankets and pillows, the smallest sultan ever to lord it over B Ward. The charge nurse came over to see how he was, and I displayed him proudly, sucking away on his soother like a champ. Not crying, not squeaking, not flailing. Just being a baby. A quiet, wide-eyed baby.

I keep getting the feeling that he's going to smile at me, I said to her, rolling my eyes to acknowledge just how ludicrous I found my own statement. She smiled wryly back at me, agreeing without words that I was asking too much. I turned back to look at him, just to revel in his peaceful wakefulness and the softness of his hair and the tiny grace of his fingers. Hi, small boy.

He looked up at me as the soother dropped out of his mouth. And his face broke into a real, honest-to-goodness baby grin. The ear to ear, tongue half sticking out with the effort, eyes crinkled almost shut kind of grin. And then it was over, and I sat there, tears in my eyes, my heart shouting a thousand praises to a God who really does give more than I can ask or think.

Baby Greg smiled. This too is what a miracle looks like.