I gave birth, years ago, to a baby boy. A child who, when I was pregnant with him, had his nights and days mixed up (especially during my last trimester) and one of the only ways he was lulled to sleep was by my movements, specifically vacuuming (yes, I had very clean floors). Who, when I was pregnant, caused me to crave espresso, Jelly Bellies for breakfast and tangerines late at night. Who told me, with little kicks, that sleeping on my left side was unacceptable. I must sleep on my back ever so slightly shifted to the right (I was and still am a side sleeper). So much time has passed since those first years of sweetness (and sleeplessness) yet, if I allow myself to be swept along with my muses, I sometimes end up with snippets of my past carefully cut out with blunt edge scissors (like the way my children used to create their handmade paper valentines or snowflakes). My past, filled with children, innocence, laughing, crying, healing, loving, draws me in and permits me little glances backwards, a déjà vu of sorts. A tiny window framed by whitewashed memory, no glass, which I may peer through and view this other world (just for moments at a time). I am amazed, perplexed, astounded when I think about the day I met my son and held him in my arms. I feel as if I have bitten into a lemon, halved and dipped in sugar, when I acknowledge how many circles those minute hands have traveled since the early days. My life was altered that morning. In the birthing experience, there was an imperceptible shift in my core, my soul, my breath. Life was not ever to appear static again. There was no grabbing the clock’s hands and halting them. The button was hit and life began to fast forward.
When you were born, I loved like I had not loved. I experienced life in a new, beautiful way that was hidden from me prior. You changed my life in such a manner that I questioned whether I had ever known love before. You were, and are, my son. I am grateful to call you this today. Happy birthday my man-boy!
With much love,