10 Months

It is the most perfect November day, cold but bright with sunshine, and we've spent almost every moment together.  We went to breakfast at Toast, where you flirted with the servers (especially the one that makes faces at you from across the room), and we took you to the park where you crawled in the leaves.  You're napping now, tired from an already big day, and probably (always, probably) teething.

This week, you said "bye" to the checkout lady at Target.  You took your first tiny step (and I was THERE!  I was there!!).  You've been going through a sleeping phase and were waking up early and having trouble going to sleep at night (but we think you've sorted through that).  You discovered balloons.  You danced every time you heard music or a beat.  You ate aloo ghobi and black bean burgers and pureed pumpkin and oranges.  You played hide and seek with me in the evenings.  You learned how to give me a toy when asked.

Today, you're a huge, glorious, ten months old.  Your daddy and I love you to pieces.

Our Seven Months

The last two days, leaving you has caused me physical pain.  And at night, as I'm preparing for another day at work, as you sleep in the next room, I can't help but hope I'm doing the right thing, being the best mama I can be, all the while abdicating your daily care to someone else.

And yet I realize you and I had seven long, lovely months together.  Seven months when, although I had part-time commitments, you were nevertheless my whole wide world.  And I was yours.  The days were long and, sometimes, frustrating.  Even so, I tried to fully appreciate every day I had with you, every day I had to watch you grow older and lovelier.  You were so tiny, and I am continually grateful that I had so many months to be your only person--to feed you every time you cried, to put you down for your naps, to hold you when you wouldn't sleep, to take you out for strolls and picnics.

And yet . . .

And yet . . . 

I wish I could still do that.  I wish that we could have lovely mornings at the library, lunch at the park, or long, lazy days at home.  I wish I could play hide and seek with you for more than just 10 minutes in the evening.  I wish we could sit in your room and read book after book, with you turning the pages and touching the faces.  I wish we could have floor time all day, because the moment I'm on the floor with you, your deep-throated chuckle emerges and you beam at me as if I am, still, your only person and your whole wide world.  

That's what makes me ache in the mornings, and in the middle of the day, and in the evenings.  I miss our seven months together.  You are almost ten months now and perfect.  (You know, I am sure, that you are always perfect.  It always bears repeating.)