You are twelve (TWELLLLLVVVE!) weeks old. You know how they say time flies? With you, it shoots…as in like a shooting star. Brilliant and bright and whooshing. Visible one moment and then gone in a flash. Leaving streaks of pure energy across the sky. Across my heart.
Your birth scent, gone. But your milky head, here.
And I have to remember that: Here and There. Both are so vast and yet so infinitely, precisely the same. Not to mourn one or the other.
How do you catalog a personality, a baby, the most authentic creature among us? If I had to start, I’d say you are the First Dawn, the never-ending cosmic Pulse that is within each of us, the gliding laughter of unrestricted smiles. These mushy words are all inspired by you. That’s it: You are Stream of Consciousness. Wow. Thank you.
Thank you for opening me, laying me as an offering so that I may love on a level I’d never known.
For seeing anger as a direct line to love. No, not violence, not cruelty, but the Pureness of anger that bubbles like a volcano. Instant. Primal. Fierce. From the core of us. It’s not that I connect anger to you, it’s that something in me (even when you were still in my womb) sparked in this last year; a struggle of sorts with channeling anger into messages of acceptance, surrender, hope, and love. It’s like a “Freakin’ Come to Terms With Yourself!” went off in my heart. Learn. Listen. Wait. Breathe.
You are my Coming To Terms. You are my Keep-Me-In-Check. My gift-i-tude of grat-i-tude. Regina tells it like it is: “You are my sweetest downfall…I loved you first”.
Daddy and I say you are the happiest of our babies. So content to Be. To manage our downpour of kisses. To watch your sisters. To smile at me through the droplets of water on the shower stall. To ride in arms as I stir chocolate bits into muffins. To sleep through off the hook noise and frantic girl fights.
You gnaw and drool on your fingers and hands. Your nuzzle your muslin blankie. You sleep best curled like a bean next to me, warm and soft, a leg hiked up onto my body for good measure. The bald spot on the back of your head feels like weathered leather. Your eyes – two deep sapphires – are hopeful and searching. You sputter and spit like a two-stroke engine when you are charging yourself up to cry. And you rarely make it to the cry stage. I could squeeze the puddin’ right outta ya.
You smile big and bold and silently. A giggle eeks out occasionally. And I am brought, literally, to tears at your authentic presence.
Tonight, I walked you outside as the sun had just set behind the mountain peaks. Summer’s heat lingered and together we wrapped ourselves into the September breeze. You lifted your gaze towards the sky and the clouds were reflected in your sea-glass eyes. I took this photo of me snuggling you close, the starry sky just beginning to peek out.
“This is the world, baby. And it’s yours. All yours. You are in It”, I whispered softly into your ear.
“And It is in You”.
I love you my Guy Smiley. To the moon and back, infinitely.