dreaming: a portrait.

milk-skinned and rosy, he smells of spun sugar when he sleeps. this marvel greets me at hours one-two-three-four, when he sleepy-croons his milksong and i go to him, i will always go to him, and it hangs everywhere now. i am awash, i am sunk, palpable sweetness, immobilizing happiness.

the boy with the red balloon.

just some little somethings for our love dove on valentine's day. from each set of grandparents: love notes -- one that sings, one that springs -- brought by post. from mama and papa: a carved-wood cub and a ruby balloon. francis was expected valentine's last, though he himself had a january birthday in mind, and he has forever re-defined this day (and love and life and thursdays and all days and and and...).

i love doing all the little mom things. like dreaming up a valentine or baking cookies from scratch or planning clothes or stuffing a stocking or gathering treasures for an easter basket...i love it all, every last bit, so. darn. much. everything an expression of the trillion bursts my heart feels with every beat. everything an answer to the questions i am asking every tick of time: how can i love him best? how can i make it special for him? what magic can i make?

they're just some little somethings for our love dove on valentine's day. but also, they're not. you know?

the luxury of my own experience.

some days ago now, my friend erin wrote me to describe a really fantastic latte she had sipped that very morning. "cardamom and bee pollen, of all things." this merry discovery was made inside a new-to-her coffeeshop in raleigh (42 and lawrence), described as the sort of place where bowler hats serve as light fixtures and a slogan sends you on your way: i sip, i salute, i am off!

i think it's really beautiful, the things that we notice. i think it's even more beautiful, the things that we notice and carve the time to tell others about. 

and i don't really know where this thought is carrying me on her wings, except to say that some days ago now, chris scooped francis into his arms and sent me off to write awhile and i strolled across chelsea before everyone was awake on my way to my own exquisite latte (stumptown, ace hotel) and i was hooked by a memory brushing up against me (a similarly bright morning, september 2010) and i like that going-on-nine years later, i can still lasso the feeling of it: the first morning in new york. 

lighting a candle. then lighting another.

an ordinary, beautiful moment that bloomed this week: a thick slice of birthday cake and a glass of cold milk while francis dreamed. i lit a candle for the occasion, because i believe everything is an occasion, and the very first lumineers album was softly spinning because this time of year always reminds of me of san francisco, 2013, when i turned twenty five and listened to it on repeat while i explored the city entirely on foot. this album, at this time of year, is where my right-now self and some long-ago-now iteration of me curl up in overstuffed armchairs to sip whiskey and tell each other stories.

and anyway, this week i passed into thirty one and i keep thinking of my view from breakfast that sparkling morning, when new york was unseasonably warm and they were right there, perched right across the table from me, one with dark curls, the other with roses on his cheeks. my boys. here. so many years, i missed them before we'd ever even met. so many years, i wished on candles for them -- for this -- for the chance to live days loving them.

i think maybe when you are given the chance to discover how very much you want something, gratitude becomes etched in your bones. memory of wanting, and the fear that often follows, becomes a tiny bird that sings from the eaves of your house.

another birthday: another year i get to live in the same world, inside the same days, as them. this is my soul-closest gratitude, my bone-deepest joy. and when i think of this wild and precious new year laid out before me and what i plan to do with it, my intentions find their shape:

to read, to listen, to witness, to absorb.
to notice compositions of breath, milk's curl into coffee, hands in mine, everything.
to live in wonder, inquiry, contemplation, and awe.
to be a blessing to my husband, our son, family, friends, neighbors, the world.
to live every day, every breath, as a love letter, as a thank you note.
to live the best life we can, together, day by day.

a birthday. a good one.

one year "happy birthday" is sung in whisper-quiet coos, and the next year it is "mama." last year's two-weeks-new dove on this year's hip. always, always on my hip. i had hoped for snow but sunny-and-sixty surprised us and made our bones sing. puffed sleeves in, let's call it, degas blue. writing. wandering. lost-count-of café au laits. roses the color of pointe shoes. a bookshop ramble. a tangle of streets. a book of poetry. a café in the morning. like being in paris. chocolate cake. looking up from pages in the warm bath to notice the sound: darling, dimpled husband baking said chocolate cake. his eyes glittering as my hands roamed the wrapping of the oblong and glorious box. love notes from ones-i-love. from my parents: a date circled on the calendar for an afternoon at the ballet. my father's memories of thirty one years back, in his own voice. (how we are, all of us, time travelers.) the view: my boys across the table, my kingdom, my whole life. stardust, and what it's all added up to: a baby (this baby, his baby) in my arms, the three of us, together. the song my life is spinning: gratitude. let's call it: heaven. here. the prayer offered on the wings of every heartbeat, every footstep, every exhale: thank you. (what a life is ours.)

beauty brought with the post.

a moment i found particularly lovely, wrapped inside a january day: 

padding down four flights of stairs to collect the day's post, baby on my hip, baby always on my hip. something from just north of seattle. ribbon and dried roses, handwriting i'd know anywhere by now.  manifest kinship, memory of november, the magical energy of womenfolk, the heavenliness of it: making something more beautiful than it has to be. 

a first birthday.

merriment for our merry boy: gypsy jazz, cheeses and baguettes, sweet potato cake, gilded balloons, cocktails reimagined (frenchie 75! aperol fitz!), birthday roses, a trip to his most-loved spot...our neighborhood laundromat. 

we gathered in our home with a small posy of the ones who love him most, and fell asleep heart-happy to falling snow just after. i search joy for her synonyms and find language outpaced, but said simply, it was just one of those really magical, love-brimmed days that might bloom in a life, if you are really, very lucky. 

happiest of happy birthdays, our little prince, our winter wonder, our boy adventure, our dream-made-real, our wonderfully clever, jovial mister. he is a treasure, and he is treasured. he has recalibrated my world, realigned my stars, rewritten in my marrow the very meaning of love and dreams and worth and time. i am so happy he is here. i am so happy we are each other's. i will never understand the hows and whys stitched inside the reason i am entrusted to be his mother, his guide, his first home, his magic- and memory-maker, but the song my life is spinning will evermore and ever after be this: thank you.