This post will come in two parts: Part 1: the sniveling and complaining part. Part 2: The nice homage to Caleb part.
Part 1. Ahem.
First of all, I would just like to say that no one took be aside before I had kids and told me they would grow up. I mean, I knew they would grow up, I don't believe in Peter Pan or anything, but no one told me that the hair on their head would turn from downy soft to coarse adult-like hair, and that they one day might say, "Mom. Please don't call me cute. Babies are cute. I am NOT a baby."
These are things no one can be prepared for. You have to learn them on your own.
And how many times has it been said by countless moms around the globe- it goes by so fast. Last night, I was driving down the highway in the snowstorm and as the flakes were flying at the window I said, "Look! I just put the car into light speed!" Which, by the way, they thought was really cool.
It's been like light speed- memories blurring together in long streaks outside the window of my mind.
Part 2: In which I pay homage to Caleb through a poem I wrote on his first birthday seven years ago. It's not Rilke- more like something you might read on a greeting card. But it is heartfelt.
I want to say something about you that has never been said before.
It has already been said that you have perfect toes,
Your father’s eyes and your mother’s hands.
That angels dance when they hear your laughter,
And are frozen when you cry.
That your hair is softer than fine sand
And your baby words sound like a babbling brook.
That enough prayers have been prayed about you to fill a canyon.
That you are loved.
I want to tell you that the day you were born
(Before even the sleeplessness, the post-partum depression,
the swollen breasts and haggard arms)
I was broken.
Because never had I felt a part of me take on a life of its own
And never could I have imagined you would come,
Rip apart from me and
Destroy any possibility that I
Would ever be able to look at the sky,
Would ever be able to walk in the warmth of the sun,
Would ever be able to plant a flower, give a kiss,
Sing a song,
Write a poem,
Hear a child cry,
Without thinking of you.
|Caleb's newborn feeties. Snivel.|
(Caleb's birthday falls the day after my Dad's, whose birthday might be overshadowed a bit. So if you see or know my dad, be sure to wish him a happy fortieth birthday. Ha ha. That would mean he had me when he was seven. Today is Caleb's last day of being seven. See how it all comes back to Caleb?)