I’ve come to realise that I don’t really talk much about my baby boy. Not because there isn’t much to say, because there is. I could go on all day about how much I adore him, and how I feel with every cell in my body that he is meant to be here. I want to tell everyone, constantly, how in love with him I am, and how happy he makes me – even if the only thing I accomplish each day is sitting by his side, watching him, and feeling myself light up from the inside each time he finds my eyes and smiles.
He’s a happy child, a deeply happy child. And content. He loves to be around people, but most especially his mama. He makes me so, so proud of accomplishments and moments that to anyone else would seem random and foolish. He has a gentle and honest soul – I know this already. I felt it as I carried him, already sensing the kind of man he will grow up to become. And it’s a priveledge to watch this happen, one tiny baby step at a time.
I don’t talk about him very often, because I’m aware that all these things sound cliché, over the top, and idealistic. As if I’m avoiding reality, or creating my own. And I have friends that are finding it really tough, and I know they’re not alone, and these sorts of words aren’t fun to read (or hear) when just getting through the day is a struggle. I’ve been there too, and I understand what that feels like.
So I tend not to say much.
But I do love my littlest boy, and everything he’s brought into our lives, and try as I might to convey that through my images sometimes I need to say it out loud. Sometimes pictures, by themselves, just wont do.
Sometimes something as simple as spending five minutes on the floor with him makes me as happy as I’ve ever been, and I have to remind myself it’s okay to admit it.