Today, my son is six months old.
I waxed philosophical about that fact for paragraph upon paragraph. And then I accidentally deleted it.
Maybe that meant those emotions, the revelations, were just for me?
Most of the time I feel like I'm writing to and for myself anyway. Which is a good thing. So maybe I needed that literal representation tonight.
It was all rambly anyway.
In a nutshell, I love my son.
I love that we had to go through hills and valleys before we met him.
I love that I eventually stopped being afraid to open up my heart as a mother again.
I love that he made us wait several times over, sweetening the moment of our meeting even more, making sure we were ready to take on all that he had to give.
I love the love I see between him and his sister.
I love that he notices no differences in her. He is in awe of her very being and she is infatuated with his.
I love watching him just...do. Even if it does create conflict in me sometimes.
If I put too much credence into his accomplishments, does that take something away from his sister who was challenged by such things?
I love his two teeth. But not when they bite me.
I am mystified by the fact that he doesn't seem to be hurt when he bites himself.
I am amazed that I've spent so much of my life not knowing him, so grateful that I do now.
I'm looking forward to the next six months, six years, six decades.
Whatever we're fortunate enough to have.