My dear ghost child:
I still see you, in the space between sleep and waking. Often, when in the throes of insomnia, I wake every two hours to your phantom cries.
I dream of you: in them, you nurse quietly, and I bend to kiss your head, the sweet scent of you filling me.
You would have been mine this month, I know it. You’d have been early like your brother was, little and quiet and sleepy for those first few weeks. We would have taken walks every day, now that I know where all the sidewalks in town are. We’d cheer for your brother as he plays tee ball and spent time hiking. And you’d have gotten used to the rocking of the jogging stroller – the one indulgence I had planned for this baby.
You’d have been my running buddy, the one thing that would be yours and mine alone.
And this September, you and I and your brother would have gone to the bus stop together, you in the ergo, waving goodbye to your big brother as he got on the bus to go to school for the first time. We might have gone for our walk after then, or maybe then we’d head to daycare, where you’d get to spend the next few years getting to know kids in your class until you, too, went to kindergarten.
I don’t know if you’d be an abysmal sleeper like your brother was, but I can tell you I’m an expert at helping babies sleep, so I think your daddy and I would have figured out a way to get you to sleep pretty well.
Would you have looked like Lucky, who was so dark when he was born? Or would you be the spitting image of your daddy?
Would you have loved to dance and sing and twirl along to the songs like I did when I was a little girl?
I wish I had the chance to know. Right now, as it warms up and the leaves come out on the trees, I wish I had the hope of taking you for a walk, or bringing you for a run in the jogging stroller. I wish we had the blue room made up as your bedroom and I could sit in there in quieter moments, rubbing my swollen belly, feeling you roll underneath my hand.
I miss you.
But you’re not here. And with every week that goes by, every week further from the moment I learned you weren’t to be, I grow farther away from you.
We got a puppy, you know. We named him Happy. Your dad and I figured that if Lucky couldn’t be a big brother, he might as well have a companion. He loves Happy; loves to make him run and throw a ball for fetch and play tug of war with him.
I’m starting to realize that we might never meet you – that you will always be my ghost child, a figment of my imagination. Representing my hopes and dreams of a very different kind of family than the one we have today.
The family we have today – the four of us now – is okay. More than okay, it’s our life in the here and now.
And I need to live it. I need to let go of the dream of having two children; I need to release the pain and the anger and the bitter and let it fly away.
I need to let YOU go.
I love you, and I wish SO much that things were different. I wish that you were in my arms, that my love for you could have made you real. We fought as long as we could to bring you home with us. And I’m sorry we couldn’t do more.
It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.
- Dumbledore, “The Sorcerer’s Stone”
I am awful at goodbyes.
It’s time, though.
This space of mine no longer feels like an opening; it feels like a shackle, chaining me to infertility. It’s my own fault, of course – writing about infertility was a hobby of mine back in the day.
But now it’s a painful reminder of what I don’t have.
And I can no longer dwell in my dreams.
You know how to find me. And I love you all.
(That’s not his real name. But I figured he needed a good blog moniker too. And since he makes my heart happy – and Lucky’s, too, and Charlie’s too- Happy the dog it is. :))
He was not the biggest puppy, nor the most energetic. But he was super sweet; content to wag his tail and wait for Lucky to come into the dog pen at the breeder’s. Actually, he took to ALL of us right away. Having grown up with breeds that intensely bond with one person and then become Protector of Loved Person, it was odd to see him attach to all of us in different ways.
He loved chasing Lucky around the yard yesterday afternoon. When we first went inside the house, Happy was so tentative, and it was only Lucky playing in the living room that got him to explore the rest of the house.
As he explored, he’d come back and climb into my lap for a snuggle, which reminded me of when Lucky was a toddler and first exploring a new place – I acted like home base for him.
And he followed Charlie around the kitchen last night and laid down at his feet whenever Charlie sat down.
We’re kind of in love.
Because, seriously, how can you NOT love this face?
The thing is – and I want to clarify my last post – I don’t actually blame the photographer who took the picture. In his interview, he said that he cries whenever he sees his picture. The baby was crying, he said in an interview.
And it goes to the news, too. I don’t hate the photographers and cameramen that were there that day. I think they came away from the tragedy just as affected as we all are. I watched too many news people, on Monday night, exercising incredible professionalism when they were clearly emotional about what they saw.
What hurt me most WASN’T the fact that photographers were there. It’s not that they took the pictures of the wounded, the terrified, the shocked, the helpers. It’s not even that the magazine chose a provocative picture like the one they did to sell magazines.
It was the idea that her son was suffering – screaming, terrified and injured – while she stood queued up with the other runners who couldn’t finish the race. Every time I think about it, it terrifies me on the deepest level – the idea of being separated from MY son and husband; the two people who mean most in the world to me, while they live through something as awful as the aftermath of a bomb filled with nails and ball bearings.
It’s personal, you see.
I can easily put myself in her place.
I came away from last week’s with dread, with the crystallization of a realization. It’s been been there, in some form or another, since planes crashed into the Twin Towers on September 11.
But no place is safe, not really.
Schools. Airports. Work.
And running, you see, is part of my therapy – the way I stay balanced, happy, joyful. Running – even short ones, like the half hour I did today – soothes my jangled nerves and fills in the missing gaps with happiness and endorphins and thankfulness for my breath and strong muscles.
My family doesn’t really UNDERSTAND how much I love running. They benefit from the results – a more happy, balanced me. But Charlie would rather walk a golf course or fish in the sunrise or spend the day hiking.
So it took the picture on that magazine, I think, to help me really grieve.
I’ve lost my naive, rose-colored perception that I have control over keeping my husband and son safe.
So what now?
Well, the capture of the guys who did it was a good first step.
I’ve continued to run this week, and each step I take makes me feel better and stronger. It’s small – really nothing – but every run I do makes me feel like I’m not going to give into the dread and fear.
And the biggest decision we made: we’re getting a puppy. Today, we are visiting a breeder who has 7 available golden retriever puppies. And provided we find the one that’s perfect for our family, we’re going to bring him/her home.
I saw an article this week about the golden retrievers – therapy dogs – who went to Newtown immediately after the shooting. And those same dogs were in Boston this week.
And on Thursday, driving into Boston, I was struck with this thought.
I WANT A PUPPY.
I want my own therapy dog.
Immediately after my D&E last fall, I made the decision to get a puppy. It was an intense desire, a need for a baby. We didn’t act on it, because I wanted more time to think about it. (And really – a puppy in November? In New England? Not the smartest decision.) And the desire flared up inside me again this week, too – the same need.
I have pretty much given up on the idea of having another baby of my own. But a puppy is a baby, too.
And I have a lot of love to give.
And right now? The timing couldn’t be better. It’s spring. Charlie is working from home until mid June and I have most of July off. We have neighbors and friends who actually WANT to pet sit for us. Lucky is starting school in the fall and we’ll then be tied to a school schedule.
I can’t tell you how excited and nervous I feel today. Charlie and I were laughing that we were more excited than Lucky is, mostly because he doesn’t really grasp the concept that HE is getting a puppy.
And I feel like it’s fitting that we end this week with an addition to our family, with adding more life and love to our world.
I’ll keep you all posted – and will definitely post pictures!
At 2:50 on Monday, when a friend from my running club was not yet at the finish of her first Boston Marathon, two bombs went off. Her husband was badly injured in the second blast. Their three year old son, thankfully, was not badly hurt – likely due to her husband’s courage.
And while she was not yet aware of what was going on, still running her race, a photographer, capturing the images of all of the chaos and mayhem, snapped a picture of her terrified son.
And then he sold that picture to a national magazine, which chose his image for its cover.
It makes sense how few details she has released to us, her running tribe, about the whole thing. Why she took down her Facebook page. Why she isn’t answering phone calls or emails or texts. Why three of her best friends are running interference for her and imploring us all: “Please do not comment to the press.”
I cannot get past the fact that she stood on Charlesgate with all of the other runners while her husband bled and her son screamed… and a photographer took pictures. The mother in me screams in anger and grief.
None of this is okay. There’s NOTHING okay about it. There is no place that’s safe. Those fuckers took away my one safe place – running. They hurt one of my tribe. And I am frayed beyond belief today.
I stood in the cold tonight, after running 3 miles with a friend, then 3 more miles with my running club, then 1 more in tribute to the victims of the attack on Monday with everyone else in town.
And I lit a candle and I listened to a minister and rabbi talk about being Strong, because We Are Boston.
And I want to scream. The god I believe in doesn’t do shit like this to ‘test’ us. I don’t WANT to be strong if it means I have to sacrifice my husband and son.
So yeah. Today’s not a good day.
But I ran.
Lucky and I came out of family swim time, him chattering away about swimming and how high he could jump; how well he swam all by himself yesterday. I helped him into his carseat, handed him his juice and snack, and casually checked my phone as I walked around to the driver’s side of the car.
Four texts, two calls, and a voicemail. And a CNN alert.
The texts: “Where are you?”
“You’re not running Boston today, are you?”
“Been watching the coverage and now 2 confirmed dead & 22 injured. Is everyone you know safe? My god!”
The panic I felt for my all my running friends, in that moment, was overwhelming. I couldn’t get Charlie on the phone. My running friend Jen, the one who was tracking the progress of so many, wasn’t answering her phone either. My MIL picked up the phone, but she didn’t have anything in the way of comfort to offer me. My SIL told me the details of what happened – the time and facts.
And when I was in between calls, Lucky requested, “Mommy, please tell me what happened.”
In the moment, I told him that there had been two explosions at a race – the race we watched that morning. That the explosion was something called a bomb, and it had hurt a lot of people – even killed some people. And that I was really worried for all my friends who were running in that race, and I didn’t know if they were okay.
I didn’t really think. I just reacted.
And over the next few hours, when I was on Facebook and my running board, breathing deeply with relief as all of my friends checked in and reported they were safe, I answered question after question from my son about what happened. He requested to see pictures of the bomb, and I showed him as much as I felt comfortable with.
Which, in retrospect, was too much.
At dinner last night, we focused on the helpers, like Mr. Rogers said. We talked about how amazing it was that people ran towards the smoke and pulled down the barricades to help people that were hurt. We talked about how Bear was GREAT at finding bombs and would help everyone he saw. We talked about how the police and the FBI have people who are called bomb technicians who are so smart that they know how to make sure that bombs don’t go off.
And he went to sleep just fine and slept through the night.
Charlie and I, however, did not.
It’s impossible to make sense out of something so senseless. I can’t even try.
This one hit so close to home, to my heart and soul, that I can’t breathe.
I am a runner.
And the people that were killed, injured yesterday? Were the SUPPORT for every runner out there. I wouldn’t have made it to the start of my own marathon if it weren’t for Charlie, my friends, my family.
And my son and husband could have easily been there; been part of the crowds cheering me onto the finish… been part of the chaos and terror inflicted yesterday.
They HAVE been part of my races. They were there when I ran my first half marathon; where Lucky drank my water after the finish.
They were there when I ran the Marine Corps Marathon; where, right after Charlie took his picture, Lucky stole my medal and wore it himself.
The fear, for me, is all consuming today. And I know, I KNOW, that this is the very definition of terrorism. Because, really – the term “terrorism” comes from Latin: ‘terror’, “great fear”, “dread”, related to the Latin verb terrere, “to frighten.”
The only thing that makes sense, for me, today, is to see my son and husband home, safely.
And then go for a run. A run where I can honor not only all the people in my life who have been my support system, the very foundation in my life, but also the others: the parents, the children, the brothers and sisters, the friends – everyone who was affected by yesterday’s events.
And maybe then I can start to make sense of it all.
I was not at the Boston Marathon today. Lucky and I came out of family swim time at our gym to texts and check ins, and for a few panicky moments, all I could think about were my friends running today.
They are all accounted for – and thankfully okay.
I believe that we have a choice in this life to react in fear, hate, or sadness.
Today I choose to send love out into the world to counteract the hate that seems to be present in every day, on every TV station.
Thank you all for the emails and texts.
Love to you all.
When I decided to run a marathon back in 2011, I signed up for a running clinic through what is now my running club.
The first workout – 200 meter repeats – I was struck with the strongest feeling.
I was made for this.
Over the years, I’ve wondered about my focus on running, mostly as it relates to me emotional, mental, and physical health.
Charlie put it best, recently, on a day where I was getting antsy because it was late and I still needed to get miles in that day.
Always, the running, he said. Obsessed.
I am NOT obsessed, I replied. I do things other than running. Swimming, for example. Weights. Yoga. Cycling.
… So you can run MORE! he replied, laughing.
We both laughed, knowing that he was exactly, 1000% right.
My silence these past couple of weeks has been a function of processing through layers and layers and layers of emotional baggage.
It’s like I finally decided to go up into the attic to clean it out… and was confronted with a room, packed to the brim with 37 years of hoarded Memories and Denied Emotions. There’s been little space to even navigate. So I’ve just been sorting through, processing, moving things around, letting go.
And with all the work I’m putting into sorting through all the crap I’ve never managed to get through, patterns are emerging.
For example, I’m starting to see that I have very little clarity about what really makes me happy.
Said another way: the person I am now is a function of many, many years of trying to fix my many weaknesses. I’ve found gratification in working around the faults my parents found in me.
I’m an excellent Finder of Lost Things, for example. Because I ALWAYS lose stuff.
I’m also an amazing Project Manager. Because I hate being overwhelmed by everything I have to do and not knowing where to start. I also know that if I think a task will take me, say, 2 hours, I should budget 4-6; even more if it’s something I don’t actually like or want to do.
Because I’m easily distractable, you see, and will end up using that extra time.
Last night was the second week of my spring running clinic.
The combination of weight loss and consistency in weekly mileage for the past few months has turned me into a very different runner than I was last year. And I’m working with a coach who has always told me I was capable of more than I’ve done thus far.
One of the benefits of hiring a coach is that it takes ALL the guesswork out of building a training plan. He’s stayed on top of my weekly mileage in the weeks where my ankle has flared up and I couldn’t run through it. He’s scheduled me for strength training when I mentioned my IT band was becoming bothersome again, way up at my hip.
And a couple of weeks ago, he planned a speed workout for me. And this time, he told me to hit a certain pace for each interval. I hit them, easily.
And when I got home and plugged in the distance and time into the computer, and saw the average pace, I was completely gobsmacked.
I never thought I could actually run that fast.
I WANTED to, of course. But wanting and actually DOING are very different things.
So last night the workout was three miles of intervals. I ran them strong and fast – at the pace I never thought myself capable of.
I don’t know how running does it, but the act of running somehow distills me into my very core. Everything falls away, and I’m left with just my essence, my hrdaya – heart center.
My runs lately have been moving meditations, where all I have to do is listen and something will well up from deep inside me. They’re generally phrased as questions, and they’re said with a voice that is quiet and full of knowledge; so much different than that nonstop chatter voice of my mind.
Last night’s thought? The universe has given me a gift.
A good friend of mine asked me yesterday, just before clinic, if we were definitively done trying for another baby.
She knows about our struggles, and she knows that I was pregnant last fall and lost it.
So I told her the truth: that I was 99% sure we were done, really done, but I was having a hard time closing the door completely. We don’t have any hope left. I can’t even consider walking back into that clinic, doing the shots, the medications, the transfer. And the life I have now is pretty full; I get baby time through my family and friends, and I am starting to wonder if that’s the universe’s plan for my life – if I’m just not meant to have more than one kid. And if I can’t have a house full of kids and chaos, maybe I should focus my energy into finding a career I love and making the life I have NOW better.
She asked me if we had considered a surrogate. We have, I said, but the cost is staggering and I’m not entirely sure how I feel about it.
Late last night, she texted me and offered to be a surrogate for us if we wanted. I know it’s a huge thing and surrogacy isn’t like a simple fix. But, I know it’s really expensive, and if a uterus is the thing you need, I mean… I don’t know, it just occurred to me.
I don’t know what’s next.
I think we are done with trying for kids, even with my friend’s generous offer to act as a surrogate for us.
I think I might quit my job for a bit so I can allow myself the space to think and feel, in the hopes that my next career might spring up organically.
I think I might keep sorting through the room of emotional baggage in the attic and let go of what doesn’t help me anymore.
I think I’m going to try my best to qualify for the Boston Marathon when I run my marathon in the fall.
I think I am finding out that no matter what is next, the life that I have now – my friends, my family – EVERYTHING that has led me to this point – is a gift.
All I know is that last night, I felt THANKFUL. Thankful for infertility, because without it, I wouldn’t be in this place I am today. Without infertility, I wouldn’t have met my friend D on a TTC board and I wouldn’t have been introduced to the idea of running a half marathon.
Because of infertility, D is one of the most important people in my life. Because of infertility, I found running – and my therapist. And ran a marathon. And found the motivation to lose 35lbs.
I have always tried to find the good in our IF; it’s been really, really hard on days.
But last night, it struck me.
Our IF is a gift, too.
I suppose I’m having a mini-blog identity crisis right now.
It’s not that I have nothing to talk about.
But it’s that I have nothing, really, to TALK about.
Lucky’s accidents are still present. We had a wonderous weekend when he turned 5 with NO ACCIDENTS AT ALL! Fairies danced and sang and his watch buzzed and he actually LISTENED to it and there was not ONE pee stain on his pants.
For two glorious days, I believed that maybe, MAYBE he had decided he was done peeing in his pants for good.
… and then reality set in.
He hasn’t figured out that he actually has to WORK at this Keeping His Underwear Dry thing. And Charlie and I, quite literally, can do nothing to help him. He has a watch that buzzes at set intervals during his day. And it’s his choice as to whether or not he uses the bathroom.
I cannot do the wet underwear/freakout/power struggle/frustration cycle any more. Yes, we’ve tried pretty much everything. And no, it’s never worked for long.
So we’re basically doing the preschooler equivalent of tough love.
Figure it out, kid.
Work is fucking busy. I like this client but there’s WAY more work than I can get through in a 40 hour week, much less reduced hours. So I’m basically adding hours to my weeks with work; instead of a day off I end up working a couple of hours. I feel like I’m juggling and juggling and nothing gets done. Not bills, not chores, not anything.
Running is great. Like awesome great. I’m back at the gym doing strengthwork. I’m running in the double digits comfortably. I am squeezing runs in whenever I can – and it’s no matter if I leave my house at 4:30 in the morning with no food, or 6:15 after a day of family parties where I ate WAYYYY too much and hydrated far too little. My runs are consistent, and pretty good. And I had my first speedwork session where I hit a pace I never thought I was capable of. And it’s only MARCH!
I’m getting plenty of baby time; this weekend I got to put my BFF’s 5 month old son to bed. And I cannot tell you the utter happiness I felt the moment he looked up, his eyes heavy with sleep, and cooed and smiled around his pacifier. I swear, I burst into a million pieces from happiness from one little coo and a smile.
Babies are so awesome.
I did have a moment this weekend at a family party where I realized that my new nephew and Charlie’s cousin’s new baby would have only been a few months older than mine, had I stayed pregnant. It made my eyes sting with tears.
But then I went home and ran 4 miles and remembered the moment my BFF’s son smiled and cooed at me around his pacifier.
This life is pretty damn good, too.
Busy, but good.
I used to think that if I had a magic wand I’d wish myself a baby.
I need more time. I need another 6 hours in any given day.
With 6 more hours, I can create a budget for our family to know whether or not I can stay home next year if Lucky doesn’t get a full day kindergarten spot. I mean, we’ll figure it out if I CAN’T stay home. But I’d like to. I just have no idea if it’s even an option at this point.
With 6 more hours, I can blog more. About what? I have no idea. But with more time, I might have more ideas percolate up and the time to sketch them into the computer.
With 6 more hours, I can actually FOLD the laundry that’s piled up in the laundry room and change Lucky’s sheets (we’re going on, what, 3 weeks now) and have them washed and folded and pay all the non-routine bills like my speeding ticket and Charlie’s parking tickets.
With 6 more hours, I spend time figuring out what it is I actually want to DO with my life. I have some ideas, but no TIME to develop them.
With 6 more hours, I can catch up on the sleep I lost do Daylight Savings Insomnia.
Alas, the days are not 30 hours long.
So here I am. I am sorry I’ve been an awful blogger. I AM going to do my best to be around more. Promise.
I was never really into science when I was a kid. Which is unfortunate, really – there’s a LOT of really interesting stuff I never learned.
I DID learn Newton’s Laws of motion. But I feel like I learned that stuff in a vacuum.
Because it hasn’t been until recently that I’ve discovered that Newton’s Third Law is actually applicable to the tidal movement of emotions.
To every action there is always an equal and opposite reaction: or the forces of two bodies on each other are always equal and are directed in opposite directions.
Lucky turned 5 on Sunday. And as I was telling my friend D, he’s READY to be five. We’ve seen real changes in his behavior just this weekend: taking on responsibility to clean up his toys when he’s done playing with them with only a reminder from us (before he’d beg us to “help him!”). We’ve made some very real strides with the pottying stuff (another post for another time).
Almost overnight, it seems, he’s become independent.
It’s almost like the past few months of issues we’ve had with him was in ANTICIPATION of being five, and when he turned five, he made the decision that he was a Big Kid. And has been acting that way, at least for the past couple of days.
I also met with my running coach a couple of times last week: once to set goals for my next training cycle, and once for a one-on-one workout with him on Tuesday night. He told me that, at my CURRENT fitness level, he thought I had it in me to qualify for the Boston Marathon. On Tuesday night, he set time goals for me for a workout which I easily met. It confirmed that I do, in fact, have the potential to run a BQ race this year.
Now, you need to understand: running the Boston Marathon was on my bucket list even before I was a runner (want proof? This post from 2007). The way to run Boston? You need to run a marathon in 3 hours and 40 minutes to qualify (for my current age), or raise $5k+ for a charity.
I want to qualify.
Now, having the POTENTIAL to qualify and actually DOING it are two very different things. I have one marathon under my belt, which wasn’t exactly the best experience – I was injured at mile 22 and then walked the rest. I don’t have a lot of experience with marathons, which means that there’s a lot of variables that contribute to an actual marathon time.
But just HEARING that I have a potential is so gratifying.
On Sunday, I ran 5 miles in honor of Lucky’s 5th birthday. I had just run 10 the day before, a little too fast because it was so. freaking. COLD outside. So my legs were tired. I kept having to slow down, and my pace started to worry me, just a bit.
And then, this thought: Serenity, stop worrying about what you SHOULD be doing. This is what’s happening NOW. This run. Today.
As I heard This run. Today. over and over in my head, another thought popped up.
This LIFE. Today.
All of a sudden, I saw the parallels from the run to my life. I’ve had this idea of what my life SHOULD be like for so long now.
But, really, I’m living THIS life. And remaining attached to the life I was hoping to have is causing me to suffer.
In that moment, as soon as I realized, I let go of the idea of another child. Just, poof, let it go. Released it. And I came home to my family, and we spent the day celebrating how lucky we were, and I watched Lucky play with his friends and then his cousin until late into the night.
Lucky HAS a brother – my nephew. He has sisters and brothers in his friends. We don’t need more children to complete our family. We’re complete as we are.
Sunday was confirmation, for me, that I have the potential to be happy in the here and now. I was surprised at the depth of the feeling, the absolute peace I felt. I savored it, reveled in it. It felt AMAZING.
And then I woke up on Monday. Where the peace was replaced with grief. Sadness. Lucky is getting so big, and there will be no more babies. And when I started making plans to get rid of his baby toys – to really purge all the baby items from our attic – the feeling grew, until last night it nearly swallowed me.
The opposite reaction to peace is sadness for me, it seems. And like the waves, they crash around me.
I have never liked the ocean. I nearly drowned when I was Lucky’s age, and being out of control in a raging sea has always terrified me.
But it seems, that emotions ebb and flow like the ocean.
And I’m finally figuring out how to navigate these seas, I think.
Today, my throat achy with unshed tears, I drove away from the local elementary school. After I registered Lucky for kindergarten.
I will admit: I never wanted to be the mom who gets all weepy over the next milestone. In general, I find the idea of having a school-age child exciting. I can’t wait for Lucky to learn how to read and write… and I can’t wait to delegate the math work to Charlie.
But today I feel the same way I felt on my birthday this year: it’s yet another reminder how FAST time flows.
It was also our line in the sand for trying for a sibling, the years between my school age child and a potential sibling would be “too much” in my estimation.
(Course, a lot about THAT has changed since we set that deadline, so really, I shouldn’t take it into account, should I?)
It’s hard to believe that the baby who was so quiet when he cried, you couldn’t hear him unless you were right over him, is going to be FIVE this weekend.
Five is the age of riding school buses, and bicycles, and playing tee ball.
It’s the age of skinned knees and mud pies and imagination. It’s tall and lanky and independent.
It’s the age of superheroes, where his loveys have powers and abilities FAR beyond measure.
It’s the age of loud, and fart jokes, and potty language.
It’s the age of stories, where he can (and does!) regale me, talking non-stop on the way home from daycare, with all the things Bear and Spoochy can DO. (Did you know Bear sneaks downstairs every night to hide golden treasure? That Spoochy has a boat that transforms into something that can ride in HOT LAVA from a volcano – without getting burned? I didn’t think you did.)
I know that his job is to grow up and become independent and turn into a person in his own right. That’s what babies DO – they turn into toddlers and then kids and then teenagers and then adults. As he grows, his world will become bigger and bigger, and his orbit around me will become wider and longer.
And it’s my job to help him navigate this world; to guide and advocate for him when he needs it and then step back and let him fly on his own.
It’s just going by SO FAST. In many ways, I miss those days where his orbit was just him and me, those nights in his room, rocking him in the darkness, marveling at how little he was and how damn lucky we were.
But. To kindergarten he will go. And we’ll start a whole new chapter of his life – of our lives.
Crazy stuff, this growing up.