Thursday, July 26, 2007

Slow Invasion

I miss my baby today. My energy was so erratic this morning and it drew you to me like a magnet. You clung to my legs as if to say you knew this. was. it. As I backed out the door waving, the tiny art and toys that filled your classroom snagged my heart with a million tiny pulls and it hurt to leave you. It hurt to leave you at 7:34 a.m.

Just like Mommy, you are the first to arrive and the last to leave. "What have I got to prove?" I wondered as I signed you in after seeing that no other child put in the kind of hours you do. Who are we trying to impress?

One day when you are faced with the choice between fishing cheddar goldfish out of the VCR or drafting pleadings in dissolution matters, I hope you will laugh and tell me how easily the answer came to you. And if you find yourself sitting in a cubicle, handwriting a letter to your baby who is still too small to read, who is (as you write) asleep on a mat 6.1 miles from where you are, who just so happens to think that every inch of you and anything that you conceive is perfection - sigh.

Take a deep breath Coco, and know that today, this day above others, you ruled my heart and invaded my every move. This is life. Welcome. Welcome to having the sense to write these things down. Welcome to the capacity to love so much. Welcome to the patience it takes to see things through. See you soon.

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