When you were born I couldn’t imagine you as a small child. But here you are. The daring human who challenges me daily to be more patient, playful, kind and aware of the giving life we both have received. Your ability to play through life is poem in itself. You cry and in the next moment laugh because you are so purely authentic and capable of being alive without emotional baggage.
I wish I could preserve you, child. I fear as the days and weeks pass you may become more like me. Afraid, closed off, and temperamental. You are still none of these things and for that reason I smile when I could scream. I hold you and kiss you when my primitive body begs to hide. Sweetest goodbyes will come, but today you are here, and I am your student of love.
Within that, there is a peace and acceptance for myself. Mothering is not a 9-5. But neither is any mans life. Realizing the power of being alive is wanting more hours in the day. Because in existing, we can’t imagine the void.
I can only see your face, and in it I see an eternity of love.