I cling, desperate, to the moment as it unfolds, knowing I will crave every tiny detail one day. Your voice, asking to go sit on the porch. In the dark? In the cold? I almost say no, but instead grab a fuzzy blanket and oblige. You crawl onto my lap and I wrap the blanket around us both. You tuck your toes in and rest your head against my chest, your existence now so much bigger than the first time I felt you on my chest, warm and sticky and wriggling and world-changing. Tonight, we admire the shadows of the porch decorations, we hear music coming from the neighbors house, we feel the chilly breeze nip at our cheeks. You ask me about your name, and I tell you. You say, I want to change my name now, and I freeze. What should I call you? “Tedward”, you say seriously, and I hold my laugh in. You are the most 4 year old you’ve ever been. As I’m savoring the warmth of your body, pressing kisses to the softness of your hair it occurs to me, you could very well remember this moment. So, I tell you, if you remember this night, this porch, this blanket, this snuggle, remember that I love you times eight hundred quadrillion, I am delighted by you and I didn’t even know you 5 years ago, isn’t that crazy? You think on that, and inquire “did you miss me?” And I almost say no, because I didn’t dream of you before you were you. But I answered Yes. Yes, I missed you before you were born, until you were born, and I didn’t know it, had no inkling of it until you were here, and here you are, in my lap, in my arms and the idea of a world without knowing you is incomprehensible, unfathomable, and downright offensive.
I want to stay out here forever in the dark and the cold and the blanket and the warmth and softness of you, but alas, you are 4, and I am your mother and it’s getting late, and you need to go inside and brush your teeth.
