I hear you rooting around in the darkness, searching for your sippy cup and you find it, and I’m so proud of you, taking care of yourself, in your playpen by the window.
We’re sharing a room together this week, at camp, and you’re over there, too, in the toddler bed beneath your Thomas the Train blanket, and when I held you today I nearly cried for the way you’re growing in leg and in vocabulary.
And I turn in the darkness, find you silhouetted next to me in the arc of a German nose and high cheekbones and you’re pulling at the covers, and I tuck them tenderly around your toes.
Because you are more than a size 34-B, more than a 31” waist, more than the five-foot-nine-inches that fill out your second-hand clothes. You are a size that fits 11-month onesies and 2T Spiderman shirts and a men’s pair of flannel pajamas.
You are your grandmother in your son’s earlobes, your father in your infant’s lips. You are the love in your husband’s eye, the longing in his hands, in his legs, in the neck that reminds you of the tree in his parent’s backyard where he inscribed your initials.
(For more, won’t you follow me here, to She Loves Magazine, where I’m humbled to be a new contributing writer? Love you, friends. Thank you for all of your support and love this week… it’s meant so much to me.)