Chunky monkey's first Christmas
by Jennifer Cohron
Dec 19, 2010 | 2180 views | 0 0 comments | 17 17 recommendations | email to a friend | print
Jennifer Cohron
Jennifer Cohron
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The most perfect gift I ever got was born at 3:41 a.m. on April 28, 2010.

Last Christmas, Noah Wyatt was just a face in an ultrasound photograph.

This year, he is a beautiful baby with blue eyes, reddish blond curls and an irresistible urge to get his hands on our Christmas tree and all the presents under it.

Wyatt doesn't know much about Santa right now, but he understands the spirit of Christmas better than many adults.

"Joyful" is the best description I can give of my son. Wyatt smiles at everybody, from the cashier ringing up our groceries to the nurse who just gave him a flu shot.

Like all little boys, Wyatt can be frustrating at times. Then he grins or giggles and I forget why I wanted to pull my hair out.

His good mood is contagious. I can find peace at the end of any stressful day while holding my sleepy, snoring chunky monkey.

Lately, some of my favorite nights have been when Zac and Wyatt curl up on the couch together while I wash dishes.

When I finally get to sit down, I turn off the television and watch my handsome husband and son sleeping, bathed in the glow of Christmas tree lights.

The house is warm and silent. Sometimes, I start thinking about the little family similar to mine who were involved in the first Christmas.

I can't imagine carrying the Son of God, but I was almost as shocked by my pregnancy as Mary was by the angel's news.

At least I had been married for two months and had the support of family and friends.

I'm sure Joseph was a proud father like Zac, and we know how far he was willing to go to protect his son. Zac would move us to Egypt tomorrow too if Wyatt's life was in danger.

In some ways, baby Jesus might have been a lot like Wyatt.

I wouldn't be surprised if he bumped his head a few times while learning to crawl, got fussy when his first teeth were coming in and opened all of Mary's cabinets without permission.

Wyatt's birth certainly wasn't as miraculous as that of Jesus, but he is a miracle to me. I can't believe that I am the mother of someone so smart, so gorgeous, so innocent.

Last year, my Christmas column was called "A baby changes everything." Wyatt has turned my world upside down in ways I couldn't have predicted.

I always get a little melancholy around Christmas. I've never really understood why.

It is one of my favorite times of the year, but it can also make me feel like George Bailey in "It's a Wonderful Life."

If I, like George, got to see a world in which I had never been born, would it really be much different?

I've never saved anyone's life or career. As far as my own career goes, I'm not climbing the ladder of success quite as quickly as I always imagined that I would.

Some days it feels like I put a part of my heart and soul into stories that no one cares about but me.

I don't need a George Bailey breakdown to make me appreciate my simple yet wonderful life, though.

I'm not rich, but I can pay my bills.

I'm not famous, but I know how it feels to love and be loved.

I may never have a corner office or win a single journalism award, but the walls around my desk won't be empty. I'll always have pictures there of the happy, beautiful boy who gives me a great reason to wake up every morning.

I enjoy my job but not nearly as much as I do being Wyatt's mother.

He pays me the only way he can -- in smiles, laughter and sweet little snores.

Those gifts will last a lot longer than anything Santa puts under the tree for me this year.