Monday, February 25, 2013
It's been 365 days. A whole year.
And I'm not entirely sure where it all went.
I remember that there was ALOT of sleep loss. ALOT of crying for about a month (both him and me). ALOT of poopy diapers. ALOT of changes. ALOT of swaddling. ALOT of calling my sister for advice. ALOT of praying. ALOT of "what the heck did we get into."
And ALOT-- and let me reiterate ALOT of love.
What do you say about the Other Man? The one you didn't see coming who swept you off your feet right under the nose of your husband? What do you say about the fact that your heart flutters at just the sight of him, and especially when he's sleeping in your arms or leaning in for a sloppy wet kiss?
I adore this baby.
Here's some of my favorite days since this time last year.
Will you please slow and AND hurry up? Slow down the independence, the separation from me. Slow down the loss of the chub on your legs, the roundness of your face, the baby-ness of your smile. Slow down the speed of which you're learning new words, realizing the world is a little scary, and processing all this data we throw at you. Slow down the disdain you have toward your sister so much (I didn't think this started this early) and slow down the linebacker's aggression you possess toward 99.99% of life.
But hurry up and say "I love you, Momma." Hurry up and pick me flowers and tell me I'm pretty. Hurry up and draw me a picture of the sky with an airplane in it. Hurry up and want a dog so Daddy will get us one. Hurry up and take up for your sister for a change.
But stay little while you do all this, please.
Little enough for me to pick you up and put you into bed at night. Little enough to look at me first when you fall down and your knee is skinned. Little enough to think it's funny when Daddy kisses me or I sing in the shower. Little enough to fit on my hip. Little enough to tug at my dress hem from the floor with your little arms reached toward me. Little enough to smile every time I walk into the room, even if you saw me 2 minutes ago. Little enough to think I can fix anything, be anything, and say anything and it's just about perfect to you.
This year, you changed my life. I'd never had a son before. I wasn't sure how this would work. Oh, don't get me wrong. I was ready for the messes you'd make, the spaces you'd consume. I was prepped for the ridiculousness of boys through your cousin. I was told of your total opposite nature to all things familiar to my feminine world. I knew I would love you as much as I love your sister. But I wasn't prepared for how you would love ME.
For how your eyes would sparkle at me and only me. For how you'd find the perfect place in my arm and nestle in there every night as we lullaby. For how you would choose me (almost) every time over all the other arms that want to hold you at any given moment. For how you'd whine for me, crawl fast toward me, squeal with delight over me, and in doing so, melt me like a Popsicle in July. For how you'd say so much with so little words when I'd catch you staring at me with admiration, and upon catching my eye, simply grin, lips closed. For how you'd restore my joy on so many tired days, refocus me on scattered days, and push me to the brink of my patience with your personality that is so much like my own.
You and I are a special ticket, my boy. I love you fiercely and furiously, like a wildfire out of control. You stretch me beyond belief. You force me to slow down and prioritize. You make me laugh until I cry. You make me cry until I weep.
And you're the last line of the song God chose to write for me.
I have enjoyed this year more than I can express with words. And to think I get to have the passenger's seat for the next 17 or so fills me with joy from my head to my feet. Your delicious face is my crowning jewel. And your adventurous heart is my treasure. Your strong will, my challenge. And as we help guide you into being the man you'll become, I fall upon God's mercy and guidance to lead us. Here's to you, my prized son. My delight, my love.
We're just getting started. And I can't wait for the rest of it.