1 month gone

To Jack on (approximately) your 1 month birthday, typed with one hand as you sprawl, sleeping, in my arms:

 

I could wax poetic on the sweet perfection of the peach fuzz on your tiny ears.  Write a haiku about your post-nursing milk face, or song lyrics about how your hair sticks up at the crown – short, just growing in – or write a novel about the delicious rolls of chub that are developing around your thighs and middle.  I could spend hours, days, just thinking about the perfect way to describe you, even as you change before my eyes from minute to minute.  I could write a long and loving blog post about how neatly you have inserted your tiny self into the fabric of our lives, and how much prettier a tapestry it makes with the thread of your life woven in.

 

I could do all of these things, my darling baby, if only YOU WOULD LET ME PUT YOU DOWN FOR FIVE SECONDS.

 

Just kidding.

 

Sort of.

 

I lie awake nights composing blog entries and poems and other such, but don’t often manage to get them written.  (I am awake because you are crying, dear – not a fan of the crib, shall we say, but we’re learning.)  It’s ok – my brain feels like it’s wearing a sweater these days, everything muffled and unclear, so what I’m desperate to say probably wouldn’t come across very clearly anyhow.  It is a more valuable thing that I give my time to you, I suppose, rather than write about you, and since I’ll be back at work for looooong 11 hour days starting next week (sniff!), I feel good about devoting the bulk of my waking hours these six weeks to studying the sweet perfection that is my baby’s peach fuzzy ears.

 

My sweater-brain is giving me nothing else to put here, Jack, except that I love you – despite the fact that you daily insist on depositing your foot INTO the poopy diaper and waving it around.  Because of the fact that on your first day of life, you already recognized my voice.  Despite the fact that hearing my voice makes you decide you are hungry, every time, even if you just ate.  Because of the fact that you hold my pinky finger in your little hand when you are nursing, and look up at me with wide open baby blues.

 

I just think you’re tops, son o’ mine, and Dad does, too, and so do the rest of your family members.  And our friends.  You are a lucky little mite, and we’re lucky, too, and maybe at Month Two I will have something more profound to say, but for now, I love you will have to do.

 

Love,

 

Mom