“Mommy, do you wish you were somewhere quiet and peaceful?”

Sometimes I do, buddy.  But there isn’t really a quiet, peaceful place in my spirit sometimes.  I carry noise and mess with me.

I look at his freckles, so heartbreakingly countless.  The careful lines of his forehead and the parentheses of his smile.  In pictures of him, I see who he has been and who he will be.  But when he looks at me, I see only him.

His little legs are dotted with torturous bug bites.  27, we counted.

He puckers his lips to kiss me, wanting my lip gloss to smooth over his own lips.  He thinks there’s something glamorous about wearing my color on him, as if anyone thinks this was an intentional choice his mother made.

And then he’s up and running, just like that, shrieking like a Gremlin.

This little boy.  I couldn’t possibly love him more.  But somehow, I will.

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