Tollie is asleep in his crib, worn out from growing up.
Someday, maybe, he'll find these words, written on the eve of seven months.
My wide eyed, two-teeth wonder,
Yesterday I held you against a hospital gown and next week you’ll be standing on a skateboard. In what seems like a single blink you're pulling up, smacking kisses, learning to wave. This week, your father has been telling people that you're DNC (darn near crawling). Your brother has been giving you lessons.
You like being naked. And banging on things. You love to eat. And to be held. You snap into your spot on my right hip, my body having evolved once again to accommodate your growth. You cling to my shoulder, my little primate, and we dance about cooking meals and sorting laundry, your torso tucked against my ribs, your convex tummy the exact shape of my waist. We move through most days as one.
When we’re not physically connected, your voice travels to me like a tin-can telephone. The early morning soft song, the energetic squeals, the attention-seeking
gagaga, the drowsy bedtime babbling, syllables that aren’t really language yet, but still, I get the message. And it feels like a thousand kisses.
You're awesome, James Tolliver. And not in the casual way it gets tossed around, but in the truest sense of the word.
Awesome. It is absolutely amazing to witness you grow, to see you blossom
in mundane yet marvelous ways.
I catch myself wondering whether, all along, you'd been sitting out there in our future, waiting for us to find you.
We're so glad you're here. You help us spend life smiling.
Love,
Mama
