I still don't feel completely steady on my feet, but I'm on auto-pilot now. I get up. I change him. I feed him. I put him back in bed. Wash, rinse, repeat.
I hope that my weakness teaches you something. I hope that when you come upon your own brokenness, tiredness, fear and confusion, that you will be okay with it. I pray that your imperfections won't scare you as they have me. I pray that you won't run from them, but that you'll wrestle with them and you will keep showing up, saying sorry, and trying again.
I never could have imagined the energy that I felt with you inside me. I anticipated weakness, illness and slower days. Those came but were far and few between. Instead, what was most present during this pregnancy was my creativity.
The amount of stuff was staggering. There were five giant bags of t-shirts, printed onesies, and pants with faces on the seat. There were boxes of tiny shoes and a box of wooden toys. Half of it still had the tags on.
Your smile is truly genuine, completely uninhibited by insecurities. It is unmasked by facade, unlike the smiles of grownups. You don't care that you have no teeth, or that your jaw goes crooked when your grin is stretched to the max.
I will continue to cheer at each milestone we hit—when he learns to tie his shoes, when he masters how to make breakfast, when he starts to sleep in instead of waking up, begging us to play.
Their childhood will move to their teenagehood and then to adulthood, and there won't be tiny little dino jams in the laundry or princess dresses that don't fit anymore. How is it possible for these small, precious pieces of cloth to seemingly rip my heart out of my chest?
