You stand strong, muscles flexed.
Your tiny little toes pressed into me, inquisitive eyes gazing into mine.
And I, too, am wondering.
How, in what feels like both a blink and a lifetime, have you grown so quickly?
Wasn’t it just yesterday (no, last year) that all I knew about you was summed up by two tiny, faint, lines on a test result?
From taking that test to being tested. You delighted and exhausted me. Drained of the energy that was once so familiar, filled to the seams with a love I was discovering day by day.
With you, I found the profoundness of ordinary moments, in the daily existence of our growing family.
My growing body.
My growing heart.
And now those little feet that I felt pressing out from the inside of me are now pressing down on my legs as I hold you up to look into your eyes.
Tamping down my selfish heart.
Pressing, squeezing me outside of myself.
Was it perhaps that I was reborn with your birth?