i was in labor for 36 hours before my son was born.
i was eleven days late.
later, when he was two years old, sitting over soup at lunch
just the two of us i would ask him,
"do you remember being in my belly?"
and he'd respond quickly "yes, it was like being in a sewer"
in the hospital, when it was time to push, i remember looking out the window and noticed a white butterfly go by.
after 30 minutes, i finally held my boy on my chest, new, and wet, and slippery.
i looked at the window and the butterfly was pushing against the glass.

sometimes its like being with a best friend, one who shares your dna which means infinite dances with the best and worst parts of yourself. it's good! i mess up and apologize often and they're a gift during this time. and they ask questions i can't answer and have interests outside of my influence and i'm still screaming for them to stay right where they are, don't grow up. which is crazy, too, because i don't want that. i want them to try everything and to go everywhere and be weird and wild and always be able to find a path back to us. small people blooming.

james

he's strong and calm and steady. when our fridge broke, when our sump broke. when our air conditioner broke, all at once that one summer- he stayed calm.
driving through the mountains of west virginia in a snow storm, in the middle of the night, with two sleeping babies in the backseat, he stayed calm.
when i was in labor and wanting an epidural and there was no one available to give it to me, and then ready to give birth and the doctor on call didn't make it to the hospital on time, he was calm. we didn't find out if we were having a boy or girl, and when the nurse said "your daughter is here" i had to look at him and i asked him if we were dreaming.
and now, during a global pandemic- he's calm.

i am taking into account all the little details that make him who he is. the way he bites his lower lip when he's thinking. i watch him while he drives, the trees behind him blurring through the window and his lower lip in his mouth.

all the parts that make him who he is that only i know. like the fingernail on his left hand that he cracked and it never healed properly. or the way his left ear is missing a little bit of cartilage at the top. or the freckles that cover his shoulder, the ones i kiss every time i see them.

and the parts of him emotionally that no one sees. the way he smiles so big that he almost cries when something makes him happy enough. or the way he cried into my shoulder that one afternoon in the bathroom, our kids were eating lunch at the kitchen table outside the door, and he leaned into me and cried.

or the one morning when i called him from work in a panic and he came home immediately. we sat on the living room floor and he said no matter what happens, we'd be okay. and he was right.

i often think about the morning i was going to be induced with our son. on the way to the hospital we held hands quietly. we packed our bags like we were going on vacation. we were driving into another life, we just didn't realize it yet. but in the midst of anxiousness and uncertainty, what was there, and what still remains with him, is the quiet buzz of rightness when he is around.

finn

bathing my son in the bathtub-
a rare occurrence now that he likes to shower more.
i dip his head underneath the faucet, holding him in my hand.
his face relaxes under the water. "you're beautiful" i whisper.
"no mom, i'm cute"
we lay under covers together- he takes longer to fall asleep these days.
i hold him tightly and wonder who he'd go to if it wasn't me.
when he's disappointed and needs consoled in a way i know best.
when he's nervous about something and needs me to hug him silently.
when he slips and falls down the last couple steps.
when he loses something and only i know where it is.
and when after the bath, he brushes his teeth and kisses me goodnight and every time i am the one to wipe the toothpaste from the corners of his perfect, delightful little mouth.