Thoughts on Friday the 13th

I miss the South so incredibly much, more every day. I never want to live in the northeast again. There's no room to breathe here.

Sometimes I think about Justin, our meeting, falling in love, out of love, in love, getting married, having children....and I think, How dare we? Who did we think we were, to hitch ourselves together for life, honestly knowing so little about one another? About ourselves? The audacity.

There's a tumor in my neck. It will be another twelve days until they stick a needle in it and tell me if I have cancer or not. Two days after that I'll find out if this baby in my womb is a boy or girl.

I don't want to talk to anyone, to see anyone. I don't want to cry anymore.

"Mommy, I'm here to tell you that the sun is not as bright as fireflies." - Mateo, age 4

Things I love (an incomplete account)

Humans of New York
Belgian Ale
Clothes that make me feel special
Christmas lights
Dancing
Mateo's smile
Annie's eyes
Tom Hardy
Books that make me say, "YES"
Sixpence None the Richer
Scarlett Johansson
Fancy chocolates
Psalms
A perfect tree in an empty field
Spanish moss
Spain
Lagos, Portugal (where you'll find me in the event of my disappearance)
Limoncello
Seat heaters in cars
Paris
Sriracha
South African accents
Giraffes
Ex-boyfriends
Annie's hair
Mateo's feet
"I just love you"
Dead Poet's Society
Grace
Old buildings, old books
Taboo
F. Scott Fitzgerald
Whales
My mother's hair
My father's mouse
When Mateo/Justin talks in his sleep
Ceiling fans
Newborn babies
Trains

Day 3

Cervical position and mucus be damned, I track my cycle by the intensity of my chocolate cravings.

Lots of tears in church. Embarrassing, but oh well. Living is embarrassing.

Day 2

First morning in "new" bed, in "new" home. Sadness, but routine as usual. How can everything be so different and look exactly the same?

Mateo and I Skyped with Justin. Good for Mateo, hard for me. Angry eyes at the screen, quietly critical when Justin asked him if he wanted to come back to Connecticut. Well, I attempted to be quiet but I think it really turned into a tense, quiet argument that I'm sure Mateo noticed. More failure at parenting.

He wants me to be the person he tells things to, what she has been to him for the past year. Should I be happy about that? I'm still angry. I told him I was glad for that but I can't respond as he wants until we deal with stuff in therapy. Apparently his response to that was to (maybe) get drunk (?) and ignore my many calls and texts this evening. Trying not to let my anger, jealousy and fear take over and make me imagine the worst. He is an addict, he is an addict, he is an addict...this is not about me, this is about his addiction (my mantra).

Started reading "Carry On, Warrior" by Glennon Doyle Melton. This book may save my marriage, or at least myself. All these messages, stories, moments where I've felt God reaching out to me can't be coincidence, right? He is here with me, in this. How can I not forgive Justin? And yet, even God says that we must come to Him and ask forgiveness, though it is freely offered. I only ask repentance. Therapy, come quickly.

Day 1

The action is over, the rushing, yelling. Now there is the waiting, the thinking, the God awful feeling. There is the planning, the moving of stuff to make way for our stuff. The empty silences, the conversation of nothing else but this. They were my reason to get out of bed but this morning I wanted to forget that. My brain can't process this reality. Small motions are difficult.

Called for therapy, for me, for Mateo. The one therapist for Mateo is no longer seeing young children, or accepting insurance. I'll wait for my potential therapist to see if she'll see him, if not I'll call Support again.

It seems so hopeless. I pray he is more addict than narcissist. Everything I've read says that narcissism is hopeless.

Oh God, soften his heart. Transform him. Give him empathy, Lord. Nothing is impossible for you. Nothing is impossible for you. Nothing is impossible for you....

Stranger

And I only kiss your shadow,
I cannot feel your hand,
You're a stranger now unto me
Lost in the dangling conversation.
And the superficial sighs,
In the borders of our lives.

Justin

You refused to see anyone, numbing yourself with the opiate of silence.
/ Great House, Nicole Krauss

30 Things...2

2. Describe 3 legitimate fears you have and explain how they became fears:

1. Snakes. I don't have nightmares about them, or scan the grass every time I step outside, but if they are around I'm definitely afraid. This probably comes from that time I was about nine years old and went out to the henhouse to collect eggs after dark, as per my chores (didn't do them during the day, still had to do them at night). I opened the door and shone my flashlight on a giant black snake, jaws agape, with a young hen halfway down it's throat. Terrifying.

2. Living an unexamined life. I want to really LIVE - and I don't mean scaling Everest, but I want to really be fully living no matter what I'm doing. I'm terrified of stagnation and growing old and discovering I didn't do something because it was uncomfortable, or scary. I'm not scared of "what if"s I'm scared of "what if we don't." I want to do something that means something to someone, and not waste away in an unhappy marriage, unhappy job, unhappy place because it's keeping a roof over my head. This might be something only people of privilege feel...?

3. Scary movies. I watch them because Justin likes them, and sometimes the idea of being spooked (as opposed to gratuitous gore) is alluring, but I'm always haunted by what I've seen for at least a few days after. I'll go around turning on lights or peeking around corners...or making Justin stand outside the bathroom while I pee, so I won't have to walk back to the bedroom alone. My college boyfriend made me watch those Rob Zombie movies and I'm still having nightmares

30 Things...1

I came across this post recently and loved it . One of the gifts of blogging (really, this is more journal than blog) is that someday my kiddos will have a window into the mind of their mother, even if it is an incomplete, scattered view. I tend to only blog when I'm feeling some emotion deeply, be it love, sadness, or guilt. Perhaps this list of 30 Things will help round out the picture of who I am, as both mother and individual. http://www.babymakingmachine.com/2013/05/30-things-my-kids-should-know-about-me-revamped.html

First things first.

1. List 20 random facts about yourself:

1. I wear a size 11 shoe. While pregnant I feared my feet expanding (as some women experience) more than the pain of  childbirth.

2. As a child I received a new Christmas ornament every year that would be mine that to take with me some day. I ended up with a lot of angels, but I was very insistent that my angels all be brunette. I felt very discriminated against because the majority of angels are depicted with blonde hair. Dramatic, much?

3. In elementary "school" (I was homeschooled) my best friend and I transcribed from film to play the entirety of "Mary Poppins." Along with some other homeschool friends we put on the play for our families. I was Mary Poppins...I don't think I've sung a solo since. I hope not.

4. In middle school I was obsessed with Star Wars. I think it started as a way to relate to my male peers but ultimately became a way to continue the rich fantasy life I'd had as a child into my teen years.

5. I smoked in college. To my knowledge my parents never knew, but now that I'm older I realize how difficult that was to conceal. I wouldn't be surprised if they knew and were just giving me space to make my own mistakes.

6. When I was little I first wanted to be a nurse, then an actress. In high school I wanted to be an archaeologist. In college I thought I'd try English. Later I transferred from Salem College to The University of Mary Washington to major in archaeology. Once there I switched to pre-law, then English. I managed to get a BA in English and thought I'd go to grad school for library science, or to get my teaching certificate. Instead, I had babies, and now I dream of being a doula/nutritionist. Time will tell.

7. I waited tables and tended bar for 6 years. I'm not sure which experience was more valuable, serving or college.

8. I saw Bob Dylan in concert in Boone, NC. He was both terrible and wonderful, one of the best nights of my life.

9. I've been sky diving - April 20th, 2007 (I think?). That date is significant.
10. I have felt the hand of God. The first time was in the backseat of our minivan, 13 years old, moving from Spotsylvania to Charlotte County, VA. I was crying and feeling utterly alone, listening to Christian rock music, begging God to take away my hurt. I felt his hand on my back and complete peace washed over me. A deep assurance that I was not alone filled my entire body. I can still feel that hand, 17 years later. It happened again the summer of 2008, when I was in Europe, running away from the life I'd led all throughout college, the man I'd been with, the purposeless that was consuming me. God's timing is perfect, though I see now that it often takes living in places of deep grief for him to reach me...or for me to turn to him.
11. I've been to the Running of the Bulls. There was sangria, cheap wine, muddy streets, and lots of young boys. Those poor creatures.
12. I can't hula hoop to save my life.
13. I love nearly all fruits and veggies but I can't hang with cantaloupe.
14. I've always been very flexible. I used to be able to bend my pinky back to touch my wrist. I probably still could but now I'm afraid of contributing to arthritis.
15. I love doing laundry, especially folding. I find it very soothing.
16. I've always loved organization and order. I used to line my crayons up by color, go through shelves at the library making sure the Dewey Decimal System hadn't been messed up, and sort disordered store displays back as they should be.
17. I spend a lot of time (too much, I'm sure) analyzing decisions I've made and options for the future - I'm scared of waking up 80 years old with a life full of regrets.
18. I wish we could abandon all our "stuff" and move to another country, health insurance and savings plan be damned.
19. I cuss in my head, and when I fight with Justin, and I don't like it. But I also hear it alleviates stress, so...
20. I cry all the time, and if I seem cold and unemotional in public it's probably because I'm holding back a wall of tears I'm determined not to spill around strangers.

Consciousness

Blank space, memory and feeling. Monuments, stone, love. Falling, falling, speeding ahead, no sight. There you go, Gertrude Stein. Out of feeling, into thinking.

Perhaps this is my impetus, the push - the shove - back into creativity. Solitude always did that for me. When you're busy and happy there's no reason, no time, no desperation for writing. Are you my friend, blank screen? Oh, to be alone, to wake every day fearing my solitude. These babies, my social creatures, my reasons for smiling and crying. What would life look like if I we were transplanted anywhere but here? Pick us up, O Great Hand, move us along to that place where we are Known and Loved. But not too quickly. Don't let them grow, please let them change. So childish, only a child. Not here, not there. This is the mortal discontent, the sadness that traps me and brings me back to the place of hope and longing. How loved is our Forever Home when our temporary shell is empty and cold.

So cold.

I am lonely. Alone, yet never alone. Am I weak, to not see the beauty, not love the temporal for what I'm learning? What am I learning that I did not know?

I know that I am weak, I am selfish, I am needy. I know. Please stop reminding me.

I want to see a therapist - at least then I would have someone to talk to - face to face. If I paid you to listen to me, would you be my friend? Can I listen to you? Do you exist?

Is our life just a series of repetitions? I am older, I have a few gray hairs, I've born children. Yet this life pulls me back, 17 years ago - SEVENTEEN - I was just as lonely, just as unsatisfied and powerless. One man's job moved me away from friendship into solitude. Seventeen years forward - repeat - another man's job moves me away. Hope rises and crashes. Am I better equipped for the isolation? I'm not sure. This time there are the lovelies, my poor babies. They deserve so much better.

Perhaps this is the shove into grace - perhaps that is the cycle. Forgiven, loved, joyful, lazy, easy, forgetful, sad, needy, lonely, humbled, repeat.

There is no conclusion to this. This piece does not end - 

We're Weaning

Dear Mateo,

It's been three nights since we last nursed. Someday you may read this and not understand or remember what that means, but right now - it means everything. My sweet boy, my firstborn, my angel eyes...I cannot hear you ask to "nurse in bed," watch your little wheels turn as you  try to come up with a reason to nurse that is most likely to elicit my sympathy and cave my resolve (this resolve is all pretense, my love). I nurse your sister in secret, too pained by your cries of, "I want to nurse because you just nursed Annie" to throw it back in your face. You are a jealous, while loving, brother and dare not stoke that fire any more. I want nothing more than to draw your head to my breast, let your pawing hands find their comfort. So many times these past few days I have almost - almost - almost given in. Even now, writing this, I want to run upstairs and snuggle you close, feel you search out the comfort you've known every. day. of. your. life. What cruel mother am I to deny you this basic ritual of your existence? What is life without it?

"You've given him more than 3 years." "You've been so patient and gentle with him." They tell me these things and I have no response, there is nothing I can say that will make three years seem like not enough. No one can understand - I doubt even another mother who has been in this position can understand. The mother/child breastfeeding relationship is that specific that only you and I - right now - can understand. One day soon you will forget and then it will just be me left alone with the memories and the twinges of loss. When you were a baby I would half joke that I would just nurse you until I had another baby and then go straight into nursing them, so I would never be without a nursing child. What naivete, to think that another child could take your place. The bond you and I have shared through your precious nursing is not the bond that Annie and I share - lovely as that is. You and I are our own, she and I something separate. I have felt a hint of what lies on the other side of this grief - I cherish my nursing Annie a bit more now, I look at her with fresh eyes - my only true baby (oh, baby, I will never stop calling you that - you will always be my baby, as I remind you daily). I snuggle you closer, tighter than I did before. I am brutally aware of you growing up too quickly and am more resolved than ever to respect your innocence and good intentions, to love you fully. These are the good things, the things I should choose to focus on through my sadness. But oh, this sadness. My tears soak our pillow as I stroke your hair back from your forehead and watch your eyes blink slowly and then shut. I tell you I love you apologetically, intensely, begging you to accept those words in exchange for the milk I deny you. You push me away, telling me you don't want to snuggle, you "just want to nurse" and a few minutes later wrap your arms around my neck and whisper you love me, you love me "so much."

I knew it would not be easy, but I never thought it would be this hard. I listened to others talk of weaning their older nurslings, how nursing sessions would gradually decrease until one day you realized you couldn't remember when the last time was. "How beautiful and sad," I would think, wondering if I would remember when that day came. I remember - November 4th, bedtime. I should have known it would not end easily, or quietly. When you were born Linda, the midwife's assistant, told me that she believed how a birth progressed is symptomatic of that baby's character. Your birth was days long, slowly progressing, intense, never ending and powerful. You came on your own sweet time, eyes open. Is it any wonder, then, that your nursing relationship would be long, intense, and difficult to bring to an end? My heart says to give in to your sweet pleas, to let you be the one who ends it - but my mind says it's time. I can't say exactly why, but I feel I will be a better mother to you if it ends. My body will be more patient, less touched out. My heart will have more sympathy toward you. I wish it were not this way - but I am only human. I gave you so much, my love. I give you so much. My lap is yours, my arms are yours, my heart is yours. You are not a baby anymore, I tell you this and it is true. You are a little boy - soon you will be a big boy and one day you will be a man. Time passes and our relationship must evolve with it. I am so grateful for those 3 years, 1 month and 11 days that I gave you my body to grow yours, my heart to comfort yours. There was so much more to it than just milk. Thank you, my son, for teaching me to give. You made me a mother, three years ago and each day over again. I am mourning, but also hopeful - this is a new season for us. I'm sure you will lead me somewhere else I've never been.

All my love, always,
Mommy

A baby nursing at a mother's breast... is an undeniable affirmation of our rootedness in nature. ~David Suzuki



It is only in the act of nursing that a woman realizes her motherhood in visible and tangible fashion; it is a joy of every moment. ~Honoré de Balzac



Mothers ought to bring up and nurse their own children; for they bring them up with greater affection and with greater anxiety, as loving them from the heart, and so to speak, every inch of them. ~Plutarch

Breastfeeding is an unsentimental metaphor for how love works, in a way. You don't decide how much and how deeply to love — you respond to the beloved, and give with joy exactly as much as they want. ~Marni Jackson

Breastfeeding is a gift that lasts a lifetime. ~Author Unknown 

Healing

Without even realizing it, I've fallen by the wayside. I thought I was doing fine, on the way to great new things, happier children, sunshine and roses.

Instead I've looked up and found a gray sky, instead of blue, frightened children, instead of connected, chaos, instead of order, anxiety, instead of peace.

I'm not sure how I got here. Well, maybe I am. I'm in transition-  but aren't we always? I thought myself stronger than this; the blow to my ego upon realizing my vulnerability has been acute.

I am anxious. I am controlling. I am sad. I am lonely. I am in that dark tunnel. I am scary mommy.

I will talk. I will reach out. I will exercise, for my sanity, and for my children. I will read to them. I will give her to Justin, and connect with him. I will ask his forgiveness for my impatience and neglect through my time, and hugs. I will listen. I will be present.

I will let the house go, before I begin. I will take baby steps and accept that time heals all things.

I accept myself. I value myself. I am myself, I cannot compare my worth and life to another's. My job earns no paycheck, merits to promotions or accolades. I have no prestigious title, no hard earned degrees. That is more difficult than I expected, to not see proof of my value and hard work in concrete ways every day. To always question if I'm doing enough, being enough to them, giving enough to myself, let alone my marriage. I sometimes feel like a fragmented, anxious squirrel, darting from project to task to errand, never completing something because my brain is racing around ahead of me, compiling lists. I have convinced myself that I'm a juggler, when I can barely catch a ball. I never stop to ask myself if the juggling is even necessary (it's not).

But I have value. I am important, essential, to two amazing little people. What is more prestigious than that.

I will let go of my guilt. I will judge no one, myself included. As Laura's mother said, I will ask myself daily in moments of self doubt and anxiety, - what is the most loving decision I can make?

What is the most loving decision I can make? It seems so simple when I remember to love.

Their Ways

The way she bounces back and forth, full body rejoicing in her new sitting up skills. The throwing herself around in her high chair, laughing out of the pure joy of movement.

The way he informs his overprotective, temporarily absent father, "I got this boo boo, I got this boo boo. I got four boo boos." The panic in his father's voice because he's not here to protect him from my lackadaisical parenting skills. (He only has two boo boos).

The giggles that spill out of her when he comes near her, her anticipation of the fun he brings.

The way he hugs me tight when I pick him up.

The way she yells at me to get my attention, not crying like other babies-  yelling.

His sweaty head, the ring of food bits around his mouth that gets pushed just beyond the reach of his tongue and dries there, a toddler five o'clock shadow.

Her sweet, sweet breath. The gummy smiles I do not yet have to cede to tiny teeth.

At night, straddling the crack between the two full size mattresses that make up our big bed on the floor, I alternate between them. I roll to my left, drape my arm across the impossibly big, strong, slim body of my two and a half year old in 4T. I scratch his back, play with his hair, hug him tight, half trying not to wake him, and half hoping he'll rouse just enough to hug me back.

I feel her absence, always missing one when I'm with the other. I roll to my right, draw my knees to my chest, my head on my right arm, lift my shirt and pull her small body in close. Her own knees draw up in her footie jammies, our bodies curl into each other perfectly, an ancient puzzle cut by a master crafter.

In the morning I will beg to use the bathroom, "By myself!" Tonight I long to absorb their newness, to let their sweet heaviness sink into my bones. This is my constant paradox.

These are the bits and pieces that make up my days, a year round Thanksgiving.

Better

Every day I wake up and say, "I will let it go. All of it. Nothing he does will matter, but my reaction will matter. Nothing deserves a reaction." And every night I lay here and apologize to my babies for being crazy-yelling-mom. I pray the next day will be better.Some days are, but most of the time it feels like one step forward, two steps back. My toddler doesn't handle change well.  I don't handle my toddler well.

Tomorrow will be better.

New Year, Clean Slate

Facebook status update today: 

2014 has begun with a bang with Justin receiving orders for March to his A school in Yorktown, Virginia. We never expected to live in Port St. Lucie for as long as we have; most A school waiting lists are not nearly three years long. The news is bittersweet - while Florida and I have an on again, off again relationship (currently on, thank you, winter) the past (almost) three years have been an intense period of growth and change for me and I will always have a special place in my heart for the Treasure Coast. My babies were born in this house...the friends I've made through La Leche League and the wonderful community of loving, supportive women I've found here have helped me survive the first years of motherhood, have loved me and my children, and have been my family when I am so far from my own. I am so thankful for God placing us here for this time in my life. I knew He was in control from the moment I sat on my parent's couch, twenty weeks pregnant, Googled "home birth certified nurse midwives in Florida," prayed for a miracle, and found the amazing Angela Love. While I'm crying as I write this, I'm also so excited to see where we'll be stationed next. The babies and I will be staying with family in VA while Justin is in school and then...who knows! Adventure awaits! 

More blogging, less FB - that's part of the adventure. More nature, less "stuff." More breathing, less yelling. More hugs and tickles, less hand holding and counting to ten. 

I am thankful for the rollercoaster the next six months will be, for the break from a routine or familiar surroundings, for the family we'll be with, for the yards we'll have to explore. I'm grateful that Mateo will have these experiences...

My biggest fear is seeing the light go out in his eyes. For him not to want to hug or kiss me one night. For his unbridled joy to become bridled. I am being driven crazy by the Twos, and yet I never want them to end. I hold him, I kiss him and I am full of fear and love. Sand through my fingers...

The Sense of Wonder

"A child’s world is fresh and new and beautiful, full of wonder and excitement. It is our misfortune that for most of us that clear-eyed vision, that true instinct for what is beautiful and awe-inspiring, is dimmed and even lost before we reach adulthood. If I had influence with the good fairy who is supposed to preside over the christening of all children I should ask that her gift to each child in the world be a sense of wonder so indestructible that it would last throughout life, as an unfailing antidote against the boredom and disenchantments of later years, the sterile preoccupation with things that are artificial, the alienation from the sources of our strength.

If a child is to keep alive his inborn sense of wonder without any such gift fairies, he needs the companionship of at least one adult who can share it, rediscovering with him the joy, excitement and mystery of the world we live in."

 And:

"I sincerely believe that for the child, and for the parent seeking to guide him, it is not half so important to know as to feel. If facts are the seeds that later produce knowledge and wisdom, then the emotions and the impressions of the senses are the fertile soil in which the seeds must grow. The years of early childhood are the time to prepare the soil. Once the emotions have been aroused — a sense of the beautiful, the excitement of the new and the unknown, a feeling of sympathy, pity, admiration or love — then we wish for knowledge about the subject of our emotional response. Once found, it has lasting meaning. It is more important to pave the way for the child to want to know than to put him on a diet of facts he is not ready to assimilate."

- Rachel Carson, "The Sense of Wonder"

Oh please, please, please let me be that companion for my children.

2014 shall be a year of wonder, a year of change, and new discoveries. Starting now.

Also, read this book.

I Resolve

I usually make too many vague resolutions and half keep all of them. You know - read more, work out more, be less lazy, make friends, save more money, etc.

2014's resolutions may not be very specific, but they are The Most Important (to me) and there is a semi-plan for accomplishing them.

I resolve: (a) To read more, to write more, to keep a daily journal with Justin. (b) To watch less, to scroll less, thereby resulting in more time for (a).

The End.

Annie

Little Lydia, my Annie, you are my dream come true, the dream I wake to every morning.

Since I was a little girl, I dreamed of you. Before I liked boys, before I knew where babies came from, before I could weigh "career or stay at home mom," I dreamed of a little girl who would share my name, the name of the amazing women who came before us. You were a vague, beautiful spirit, somewhere deep inside me and far off in the future. You came true.

Your grandfather dreamed of you, also (he secretly hoped your brother would be you, but don't tell Mateo that). I think with my birth he discovered the magic beings baby girls could be, the way they can capture your heart and unearth new wells of love within you. He has waited for you for a long time; three grandsons came before you, for you he has waited longer than I.

You are my dream, the keeper of a beautiful future, my calm and peace, my reminder to love myself just as I am, so that you will always find within yourself perfection and grace, just as you are. May you have the curiosity and resiliency of Lydia Maria Chomat, the generosity, energy, beauty, and independent mind of Lydia Maria Ferran, the sensitivity, heart, and gifts God bestowed on me, your mother, and your own unique spirit yet to be revealed. You are loved, just as you are, my own Lydia.

Today

Between the sighs, tears, the "how am I going to do this?" and the overwhelming...desperation of it all is something else.

She is my something else. My Lydia Antoinette, my Annie. The quiet, easily startled, sleepy, frightened eyed little girl who constantly occupies my arms, my lap. Fifteen days old. So...easy. She is my world and easily forgotten. She's here. My daughter. She epitomizes sweetness, meekness, she asks so little from me. To nurse, to be held. To stare into my eyes, to speak to my soul, to say, "I'm here. At last." She barely spits up, her burps are quiet little lady burps. So unlike her brother, who charged into the world screaming for his dinner, and still bangs his way through our home and hearts two years later. What a relief she is, what shelter from this storm that is my transition to mother-of-two. And yet...she did this. She is the reason for this storm. I look at her peacefully dozing and wonder how that can be true. How can this quiet, wide-eyed, kissy lipped, dark haired angel be the reason for my chaos? Did Mateo take so much of me that I cannot spare even the small bit she asks?

I am letting go. I am breathing, in and out, in and out, in and out. Three deep breaths to eliminate the fright or flight response. I am choosing not to care about these things, to love my little boy first, and my home last. To shelter my new baby in my arms, to wear her close to my heart. Water, clean diapers, food. The necessities. One day at a time, that's all we have. I have this day with her, tomorrow she'll be bigger. I have this moment to play with him, tomorrow he may not want me. I am theirs for today, one day soon they will be gone. Today, love for today. That's all I need. Love is patient, love is kind. Today, now. Not in a little while, now.

They are changing me, with their love, with their cries, the lips they both inherited from their father, sucking my heart out with the milk one requires for survival, and the other requires to feel the fullness of my love. Their eyes, so big, his, mine, challenging me to love them more, love them first.

Today, love for today.