when i want to write and feel wordless, i should remember to always fall back on what i love and know best: those little boys of mine. bear with my mama-heart? :)
my baby is five months, and i think i literally ache at each day older, just wanting him to stay for a while. with all those previous, i was ready to stop bed-sharing, ready for a little "independence," some space, if you will.
(there is no real indictment from me; i know who i used to be. i shiver in remembering. how can there be grace? i shiver in the undoing)
i am not ready for intro-to-solids.
not ready for him to be in his own room, far away in our tiny house.
not ready for him to crawl and get bigger.
i wasn't ready for him to be out-of-womb because of how special that sense of all mine was. i still feel he's just mine in a way, and i could breathe in his soft plumpness for always. he has found his feet (truly, no thing in the world is as cute as a fat baby holding his feet to his own delight, i say!) and found his voice (pterodactyl? squeaky-toy?), and i can already see him running away and telling me no, and i pray he stays little a little longer.
each of my sons has a treasure i love, and i chuckle to think of what i love most about baby owen: he is small and young for a fleeting season. already it is cold when i was fatly pregnant in spring. so as he rolls over onto belly and gets stuck in the bumbo and drinks deeply from mama's breasts, i choose to honor this time with gratitude that he mine to borrow at all.