there has been no struggle to mother him. he just happened one morning, and everything else happened with him. loving him, soothing him, nourishing him, knowing him, raising him up is more familiar to me than my own lungfuls of air.
waters rushed at thirty six weeks (thirty seven, perhaps...) and barreling down central park west in a yellow taxi towards the hospital, tears streamed down my face. i am not ready. i was, and i wasn't. i was ready to hold my baby. i just wasn't ready to be done growing him.
and every day since two days after that (oh, the everlasting labor of francis lafayette) has been spent in complete understanding and awe.
i am not ready. he is.
there is perfection in his timing.
he is wiser than me.
he was work to do. in this family. in this world.
francis and me, we were meant to be.
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