Somehow I got sucked into this motherhood/moving/writing vortex and this is me climbing out.
This was us one year ago.
This is kind of a hard picture to look at for a couple of reasons.
1) My eyebrows.
2) My baby was born via repeat C-section. I tried to avoid it. It didn’t work out.
But his cheek pressed against mine, I still remember exactly how that little slice of him felt. First I heard him and his angry kitten cry; then the nurse smushed him right up to me and that made everything okay. But not my eyebrows. Those are so not okay.
This year we have slept together more nights than we haven’t, he has grown from my milk, there have been laughs and screeches and tears and screaming and more laughs. This year I finally got this motherhood shit down, until I realized that I will never have this motherhood shit down. This year I realized that I have to be brave because that’s what my kids require of me, for me to have some courage and some faith even when I feel empty and scared. So we did brave things. We faced financial hardship and fought for what’s ours and left behind everyone we know to move to a place we actually want to be. There’s a lot of stuff in between that, of course. And isn’t that what life is, a constant reading between the lines.
My gingerhead baby is now one year old and I couldn’t be more proud. He felt so tiny when he was born but he has always packed a punch, has always looked me straight in the eye and stared into my depths, has always clung to me with the intensity that only a Scorpio can muster, has always laughed and cried with all of himself. He is perfect, and because of him, we are perfect. Happy birthday, old soul. I absolutely adore you.