Write Softly

Four years old.

Son,

When you were born, I remember thinking, “How will I have all the answers? How will I know what to say when he asks me questions?” Luckily, I’ve learned that between your dad, me, Google, Wikipedia and the writings of our faith, most of the questions you’ve asked me so far are within my abilities to answer. The tough questions are actually the ones I ask myself.

Where did the time go? How can he be four? Does he know how proud he makes me, every day? And how can he ever know how much I love him?

That last one’s a doozy. Sometimes I feel like you’ll never really know just how much you’re loved — and sometimes I think that yes, someday, when you hold your own child, watch him or her grow and learn, then you’ll understand.

Even at the ripe old age of four (!!), and as bright (!!!) as you are, you’re too little to notice all the ways your dad and I are always trying to tell you what you mean to us. I hope when you read this someday, you’ll remember a little bit of all of this, and realize then what we were trying to say. I want you to know that your laughter brings our home to life. It always has. Every time you dissolve into giggles, your dad turns to me and says, “That’s the BEST sound.” Every time. And he’s right.

I want you to know that you make me proud of you in a million ways, all the time. I love it when you read me a word that you’ve sounded out alone, and I love it when you write your own name — but I love it even more when you talk to one of your grandparents on the phone, and ask them if they’re feeling better from the cold they had last week. I love it when you say “please” and “thank you” to your baby sister, even when she seems oblivious to your manners. I love it when you greet your dad as he returns from a round of golf with a hug and questions that show just how much you care about him: “Did you have fun, dad? Did you get the ball in the hole?” 

I want you to know that sometimes, when you tell me a story, I have to work hard to pay attention to the details. It’s not because the story’s not interesting — it’s because I will be struck so sharply by how perfectly beautiful you are that it overwhelms me. Your little face shines with such light that I can feel it pierce my heart in its perfection. 

I want you to know that so many nights (so many!), after you and your sister are sleeping, your dad and I sit in his office and just look through pictures of you. Those hours when we could be watching TV, relaxing, finishing up a project around the house — we spend a lot of them aching to be able to hold you again, even though you’re just upstairs in bed. Do you understand? We miss you while you sleep, son. Looking at your baby pictures is a kind of sweet torture for us. We are so thankful to have those reminders of the adorable baby you were, so grateful to have had that time to spend with you — but we grieve for how quickly it passed. I swear it was yesterday you were learning how to walk. And now? Now you run and climb and swing and jump and dance. 

A few nights ago you were cuddled on my lap before bedtime, wanting a story or watching me flick through photos on my phone or maybe just feeling cold and wanting to be warmed up. I gathered you up, all those long legs and arms of yours, and I realized that you fit. You always have, right up against my heart. You used to fit in a squishier, softer way, and now I have to fold you up like an accordion in my arms, but you fit. You always will, and nothing will ever change that. You will someday be taller than me, and I may be be more wrinkled, but you will always fit. In my arms, against my heart.

Happy birthday, my sweet boy. I love you.

Love,
mom

Musings in a rocking chair

We’re doing a new bedtime thing, the girl and I. Where we used to nurse until she dropped off to sleep in the soft brown rocker in her bedroom, we’re now finishing up any bedtime nursing OUTSIDE of her room, then quietly entering her room to rock for a bit before I put her down awake. She’s protested this change a little, but largely it’s gone more smoothly than I could have hoped for. 

The other night, I sat down in her rocking chair and settled her in my lap. She immediately made a “mah” sound, her indication that she wanted to give me a kiss. Her little lips found my left cheek in the dark. Unsatisfied, she shifted her face over to find my mouth, but overcorrected, and I got a smacker on the RIGHT cheek. After one more attempt, she planted a kiss on my lips and, satisfied, snuggled against my chest.

From time to time, my girl would say, “Mama?” as if to ask if I was still there. I’d answer in a whisper,”Yes?” This went on for a while.

“Mama?”
“Yes?”
“Mama.”
“Yes, lovey?”
“Mama?”
“Yes, baby girl?”

When she was finally convinced I hadn’t left yet, she hummed a little “Hmmmmm,” contented, and nestled deeper, with a little sigh.

I’ve gotten into the habit of prayerfully meditating while I rock her in the dark, and the peace I feel in those moments is nothing short of magical. It’s the time of the day when the blessings that have been heaped upon me are the most transparent to me — I sit in a comfortable chair in my daughter’s room, in a home I share with a husband whom I adore and a son whose smile lights up a room and brings an answering smile to my face EVERY TIME, with my baby girl’s warm weight a blanket over my heart. My children are healthy and happy and bright, and I have the incredible luxury of staying home with them and watching them grow each day. 

When I was a teenager and I envisioned my adult life, I thought it would be filled with bustling, busy joy. I was certain that joy would come from being a published author, stopping for fresh flowers every day to drop artlessly into a cobalt blue vase in my kitchen window, taking riding and tennis lessons, going to the theater in the evenings with friends, enjoying gourmet dinners in high heels and pearls and cocktail dresses. 

I was right about the joy. It is both much more simple, and much more complex, than the kind a packed social calendar could ever give me. I wouldn’t trade it for all the riches in the world.

Shameful

So, I haven’t posted since March. 

Sorry.

The next few posts will be an attempt to catch up, mostly with pictures of the kids.