'She wasn't doing a thing that I could see, except standing there, leaning on the railing, holding the universe together.'
I've been coming here for a few weeks now almost every night after you go to bed, only to stare at the blank screen. It's a new thing, this problem of knowing exactly what I want to say but with no idea how to say it. You turned nine months old right before Mother's Day. You have been here now as long as it took for you to grow and be born and that seems somehow enormous to me. I've been uploading photos. A few sentences here and there. When I attempt any more, my brain seems to short circuit. It's all too impossibly good. Even when it's bad, it's good. I know I've mentioned it before, but lately I just can't shake the feeling that these are the good old days. The ones I will be forever reminiscing about when I am old and gray and wizened and sitting at a kitchen table with my old lady friends like the Golden Girls. I will be boring everyone to death with my stories about Portland and the time when my baby was little. How long the spring was. How soft your hair felt under my hand. How meticulous you were about everything you did. How much you adored your Dad. How I held you on my hip just so. No matter how hard it gets, no matter how little sleep I've had, nothing I have ever done in my life feels as good as being your mother. And nothing ever will. Happy nine months, sweet boy. I love you so.