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.)