09 March 2018

at week's end.

last week was sleepy. so very sleepy. cluster feeding day and night for a long stretch caught me by thursday, and the weekend was a study in finding small pockets to curl up and nap inside. i feel such gratitude towards christopher for that. in so many ways, he helps me be the things i can't easily be on my own. 

if last week was sleepy, this week was soft and full. i faced the days and nights feeling lighter and bright eyed and utterly myself, amazed at how little sleep i truly need these days and at how much of a difference just a wink more can bring.

our songbird found his sweet voice this week. his smile, too. they are — he is — absolute magic. 

this week we went for waffles at buvette as a family, and walked in central park under heavy snow, and my boy and i visited the met together, for the first time, as mother and son. chris and francis gifted me a membership for my thirtieth birthday. more than seven years in new york city — so many months of sundays spent wandering the galleries, church of sorts, one of my two spiritual homes — and i am a bonafide member of the metropolitan museum of art. it feels good. it feels right. it feels right for any day of my life, but it especially feels right for who i am at thirty. 

the love note accompanying my membership was from francis, asking me to take him to the met.

oh, my darling boy. i will take you to the met. i will take you deep into apple orchards in autumn. i will take you to the california coast. i will take you to breathe in the mountains, to fly kites by the sea, across oceans and avenues, to lay on your back under puffed, pink blossoms and the blue dream of sky.

it is my joy, it is my privilege, to be the one alongside your papa to show you the world and shepherd your discovery of your place in it. i want to teach you to love the earth, to build worlds of sticks, to find answers in poetry and bare feet on dirt and woods thick with bird-filled trees. i want you to collect friends and dreams. i want you to make things with your hands. i want you to watch rainfall and hear music notes. i want you to look at freckles on your own skin and see a constellation. i want you to ask why. i want you to feed your body well and understand where your food comes from and eat with gratitude of those facts. i want you to find the places and people and scenes and songs that make you feel things, and get lost in reaching for more, and tell me all about it.

(oh, my darling boy. welcome to your life.)

1 comment:

  1. So wonderful, so much magic in your words, so much joy in seeing you be a mama.