Sigh. Today I publish your nine month letter...two days late. Whereas before I drafted these words well in advance of the actual month marker, from now on it will be a race against time to translate my thoughts into type, my heart into my head and through my fingers. These are the deadlines they don't tell you about when you start back at work after parental leave, I suppose. The ones that matter.
Things you've done this month: You venture up the stairs (and promptly fall down them). You continue to babble and coo, but still don't say mama. Or mum. Or moo. Or anything that would suggest to me that you love me at least as much as you love your dad, whose name you've been saying - repeatedly, and in the most heart-breaking sing-songy voice my ears have ever had the pleasure to hear, ever - for over a month now. (And I tell ya kid, I have never wanted anyone to call me moo before, but I want you to. I want you to wake up right now, even though it's 11:30 at night, and say Moo! I love you! Can I watch those cheap adult TV shows that are on Showcase on Friday nights too? Just like daddy is? Because I would say, Yes. Yes you can. But don't get any ideas when you see all those boobies. Because mommy's have been put away, and they can't come out to play anymore. Sorry.)
I miss you, Sweetheart. At work the other day, sitting in a computer room listening to techies drone about how to save files into the fancy computer system they built (um, you press Save, in case you were wondering), I imagined you crawling around through the chairs, under the desks, greedily eyeing the wires before you GRABBED THEM, AND ATE THEM. My mind wandered from the subject at hand - printing (um, you press Print) - and my thoughts turned to your smell. Ahh, your smell. It is my oxygen when you're near me, and the death of me when you're not. And your daddy is so, so lucky (and so are you) for this time the two of you now have together. And this is what I remind myself of, what I say silently, internally, when I need to snap myself back to the task at hand: Searching for electronic files (um, you press Search), or learning about the proper way to format a briefing note (one inch margins, 14-point font, and never EVER over two pages, because THAT is how policy gets made).
And when I want to transport myself back onto your car mat on the living room floor that sops up your spilt milk and which is covered in books, green plastic rings, and more than a few of the six toy cell phones you have now in your possession, I look down at my pant leg at the medley of formula, goober and oatmeal tattooed in an oval just above my knee, the place where you pull yourself up to kiss me as I stand at the kitchen counter to pour my morning coffee just before leaving to catch my bus to work. Some people wear their hearts on their sleeves, but I wear mine on my pant leg, at least until I walk in the door after a too-long day away from you. Then, I scoop up my heart in my arms and inhale deeply, able to breathe once again, at least until the next morning, when the process starts itself again.
And that is what you did when you were nine months old, Mr. Man: You taught your mommy what it means to breathe.
2 sweet nothing:
Grandma misses Boh, C'est Bon!
Is that toy the english version? from, Dustin
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