Today you turn 5 and my world feels totally tilted on its axis. I am bewildered and in a merciless chokehold of the mystical space/time continuum. How on earth?
I see you and see 1000 years in all directions, always.
These days all you want to do is pretend to be a newborn baby. Talking about your birth and the way I would hold you. It’s like both of our bodies are remembering at the same time and both of our brains are trying to catch up. Remember what it was like to hold your baby for the first time? Remember what it was like to meet the face of your mother? Maybe 5 is this very precious and precarious time where we’re close enough to remember and 5 enough to forge our own path. It feels like this gentle departure. From baby to kid. From new mom to mother.The littlest letting go.
You tell me stories that are so long and nuanced now, you say things like “I can’t remember his name, so let’s call him John.” You have the best sense of humor and the best laugh. You know when someone needs a friend and when something feels wrong. When you have a big feeling- it is gigantic. My jaw is on the floor at just how you-you have become, I didn’t do anything at all. You become, you become, you become- I make space, I make space, I make space. You keep growing and I do too. I look at your face and see my life flash before my eyes. I see everyone I’ve ever loved and everything that’s ever moved me. I see everyone you are yet to love and every movement you are yet to feel. It fills me with joy and peace and fear and anticipation all at once. It is a two step with life and a two step with death. Thats what being a parent is, its just that dance all of the time.
Lately when you hold my head in your hands you tell me you see shadows and spots on my face that let you know I’m getting older. I see you too my sweet girl. We look at pictures of you as a baby and I cry at how much you’ve grown. You look at those same pictures and say “Mommy, you look so young”
Look how much we’ve changed.
Happy birthday my sweet Ezer Billie.
I love you, I love you, I love you,
I love you, I love you.
Today you turn 5 and my world feels totally tilted on its axis. I am bewildered and in a merciless chokehold of the mystical space/time continuum. How on earth?
I see you and see 1000 years in all directions, always.
These days all you want to do is pretend to be a newborn baby. Talking about your birth and the way I would hold you. It’s like both of our bodies are remembering at the same time and both of our brains are trying to catch up. Remember what it was like to hold your baby for the first time? Remember what it was like to meet the face of your mother? Maybe 5 is this very precious and precarious time where we’re close enough to remember and 5 enough to forge our own path. It feels like this gentle departure. From baby to kid. From new mom to mother.The littlest letting go.
You tell me stories that are so long and nuanced now, you say things like “I can’t remember his name, so let’s call him John.” You have the best sense of humor and the best laugh. You know when someone needs a friend and when something feels wrong. When you have a big feeling- it is gigantic. My jaw is on the floor at just how you-you have become, I didn’t do anything at all. You become, you become, you become- I make space, I make space, I make space. You keep growing and I do too. I look at your face and see my life flash before my eyes. I see everyone I’ve ever loved and everything that’s ever moved me. I see everyone you are yet to love and every movement you are yet to feel. It fills me with joy and peace and fear and anticipation all at once. It is a two step with life and a two step with death. Thats what being a parent is, its just that dance all of the time.
Lately when you hold my head in your hands you tell me you see shadows and spots on my face that let you know I’m getting older. I see you too my sweet girl. We look at pictures of you as a baby and I cry at how much you’ve grown. You look at those same pictures and say “Mommy, you look so young”
Look how much we’ve changed.
Happy birthday my sweet Ezer Billie.
I love you, I love you, I love you,
I love you, I love you.
For the most part, I think I’m a good mom. I witness them, they’re clean and fed and happy-and when they’re not- I try to imagine myself as a polymorphous energy of stillness and compassion- I love them to the ends of the earth. Yet, sometimes mothering feels like my 5 year old and I taking turns shouting “I’m feeling overwhelmed!” -her new favorite phrase and my most regular feeling. I hate how scared they get when my voice gets loud. I hate it when my voice gets loud. I hate remembering the feeling and I hate bringing it on to them. I even hate scooping them up afterward and saying I’m sorry. But I love what happens in my body when I hold them and hold myself. I love that the second after I do, I hold my own mother and every mother I know. God, I spend so much time thinking about my own Mom, wishing I could go back in time and seep into her all the grace and love and gentleness this world has to offer. Wishing that in the endless shapes and voids of parallel universes-my children and my mom and my dad could seep into me the same. Feeling endlessly frustrated that it takes lifetimes not lives to endure the exquisite imbalance of pain and healing. I spend so much time thinking about what I get wrong, almost no time thinking about what I got right and tucked inside all regular adult human thoughts- “in this moment- I wonder what they’re feeling.” I’m learning to untangle on my days without them, how to feel the sun on my face, how to see straight upside down and walk without limbs etc, still automatically waking up for sleep regressions they’ve long since outgrown. Still feeling the urge to watch their chest rise and fall three times before I can fall back asleep. Still feeling myself as a child wanting to scream with the unbridled anguish that my children do. The other day when she did, she turned to me and said “Mama, I just need extra care” and that’s the proudest moment I’ve ever felt as a mother. That’s the only “got it right” feeling that cast a shadow long enough for me to see clearly. So, Moms- today I wish for you the voice to say “I just need extra care,” and I wish for you someone to receive it. I also wish for you to watch Bluey- s2 ep 26. 🫶
For the most part, I think I’m a good mom. I witness them, they’re clean and fed and happy-and when they’re not- I try to imagine myself as a polymorphous energy of stillness and compassion- I love them to the ends of the earth. Yet, sometimes mothering feels like my 5 year old and I taking turns shouting “I’m feeling overwhelmed!” -her new favorite phrase and my most regular feeling. I hate how scared they get when my voice gets loud. I hate it when my voice gets loud. I hate remembering the feeling and I hate bringing it on to them. I even hate scooping them up afterward and saying I’m sorry. But I love what happens in my body when I hold them and hold myself. I love that the second after I do, I hold my own mother and every mother I know. God, I spend so much time thinking about my own Mom, wishing I could go back in time and seep into her all the grace and love and gentleness this world has to offer. Wishing that in the endless shapes and voids of parallel universes-my children and my mom and my dad could seep into me the same. Feeling endlessly frustrated that it takes lifetimes not lives to endure the exquisite imbalance of pain and healing. I spend so much time thinking about what I get wrong, almost no time thinking about what I got right and tucked inside all regular adult human thoughts- “in this moment- I wonder what they’re feeling.” I’m learning to untangle on my days without them, how to feel the sun on my face, how to see straight upside down and walk without limbs etc, still automatically waking up for sleep regressions they’ve long since outgrown. Still feeling the urge to watch their chest rise and fall three times before I can fall back asleep. Still feeling myself as a child wanting to scream with the unbridled anguish that my children do. The other day when she did, she turned to me and said “Mama, I just need extra care” and that’s the proudest moment I’ve ever felt as a mother. That’s the only “got it right” feeling that cast a shadow long enough for me to see clearly. So, Moms- today I wish for you the voice to say “I just need extra care,” and I wish for you someone to receive it. I also wish for you to watch Bluey- s2 ep 26. 🫶
For the most part, I think I’m a good mom. I witness them, they’re clean and fed and happy-and when they’re not- I try to imagine myself as a polymorphous energy of stillness and compassion- I love them to the ends of the earth. Yet, sometimes mothering feels like my 5 year old and I taking turns shouting “I’m feeling overwhelmed!” -her new favorite phrase and my most regular feeling. I hate how scared they get when my voice gets loud. I hate it when my voice gets loud. I hate remembering the feeling and I hate bringing it on to them. I even hate scooping them up afterward and saying I’m sorry. But I love what happens in my body when I hold them and hold myself. I love that the second after I do, I hold my own mother and every mother I know. God, I spend so much time thinking about my own Mom, wishing I could go back in time and seep into her all the grace and love and gentleness this world has to offer. Wishing that in the endless shapes and voids of parallel universes-my children and my mom and my dad could seep into me the same. Feeling endlessly frustrated that it takes lifetimes not lives to endure the exquisite imbalance of pain and healing. I spend so much time thinking about what I get wrong, almost no time thinking about what I got right and tucked inside all regular adult human thoughts- “in this moment- I wonder what they’re feeling.” I’m learning to untangle on my days without them, how to feel the sun on my face, how to see straight upside down and walk without limbs etc, still automatically waking up for sleep regressions they’ve long since outgrown. Still feeling the urge to watch their chest rise and fall three times before I can fall back asleep. Still feeling myself as a child wanting to scream with the unbridled anguish that my children do. The other day when she did, she turned to me and said “Mama, I just need extra care” and that’s the proudest moment I’ve ever felt as a mother. That’s the only “got it right” feeling that cast a shadow long enough for me to see clearly. So, Moms- today I wish for you the voice to say “I just need extra care,” and I wish for you someone to receive it. I also wish for you to watch Bluey- s2 ep 26. 🫶
For the most part, I think I’m a good mom. I witness them, they’re clean and fed and happy-and when they’re not- I try to imagine myself as a polymorphous energy of stillness and compassion- I love them to the ends of the earth. Yet, sometimes mothering feels like my 5 year old and I taking turns shouting “I’m feeling overwhelmed!” -her new favorite phrase and my most regular feeling. I hate how scared they get when my voice gets loud. I hate it when my voice gets loud. I hate remembering the feeling and I hate bringing it on to them. I even hate scooping them up afterward and saying I’m sorry. But I love what happens in my body when I hold them and hold myself. I love that the second after I do, I hold my own mother and every mother I know. God, I spend so much time thinking about my own Mom, wishing I could go back in time and seep into her all the grace and love and gentleness this world has to offer. Wishing that in the endless shapes and voids of parallel universes-my children and my mom and my dad could seep into me the same. Feeling endlessly frustrated that it takes lifetimes not lives to endure the exquisite imbalance of pain and healing. I spend so much time thinking about what I get wrong, almost no time thinking about what I got right and tucked inside all regular adult human thoughts- “in this moment- I wonder what they’re feeling.” I’m learning to untangle on my days without them, how to feel the sun on my face, how to see straight upside down and walk without limbs etc, still automatically waking up for sleep regressions they’ve long since outgrown. Still feeling the urge to watch their chest rise and fall three times before I can fall back asleep. Still feeling myself as a child wanting to scream with the unbridled anguish that my children do. The other day when she did, she turned to me and said “Mama, I just need extra care” and that’s the proudest moment I’ve ever felt as a mother. That’s the only “got it right” feeling that cast a shadow long enough for me to see clearly. So, Moms- today I wish for you the voice to say “I just need extra care,” and I wish for you someone to receive it. I also wish for you to watch Bluey- s2 ep 26. 🫶
For the most part, I think I’m a good mom. I witness them, they’re clean and fed and happy-and when they’re not- I try to imagine myself as a polymorphous energy of stillness and compassion- I love them to the ends of the earth. Yet, sometimes mothering feels like my 5 year old and I taking turns shouting “I’m feeling overwhelmed!” -her new favorite phrase and my most regular feeling. I hate how scared they get when my voice gets loud. I hate it when my voice gets loud. I hate remembering the feeling and I hate bringing it on to them. I even hate scooping them up afterward and saying I’m sorry. But I love what happens in my body when I hold them and hold myself. I love that the second after I do, I hold my own mother and every mother I know. God, I spend so much time thinking about my own Mom, wishing I could go back in time and seep into her all the grace and love and gentleness this world has to offer. Wishing that in the endless shapes and voids of parallel universes-my children and my mom and my dad could seep into me the same. Feeling endlessly frustrated that it takes lifetimes not lives to endure the exquisite imbalance of pain and healing. I spend so much time thinking about what I get wrong, almost no time thinking about what I got right and tucked inside all regular adult human thoughts- “in this moment- I wonder what they’re feeling.” I’m learning to untangle on my days without them, how to feel the sun on my face, how to see straight upside down and walk without limbs etc, still automatically waking up for sleep regressions they’ve long since outgrown. Still feeling the urge to watch their chest rise and fall three times before I can fall back asleep. Still feeling myself as a child wanting to scream with the unbridled anguish that my children do. The other day when she did, she turned to me and said “Mama, I just need extra care” and that’s the proudest moment I’ve ever felt as a mother. That’s the only “got it right” feeling that cast a shadow long enough for me to see clearly. So, Moms- today I wish for you the voice to say “I just need extra care,” and I wish for you someone to receive it. I also wish for you to watch Bluey- s2 ep 26. 🫶
For the most part, I think I’m a good mom. I witness them, they’re clean and fed and happy-and when they’re not- I try to imagine myself as a polymorphous energy of stillness and compassion- I love them to the ends of the earth. Yet, sometimes mothering feels like my 5 year old and I taking turns shouting “I’m feeling overwhelmed!” -her new favorite phrase and my most regular feeling. I hate how scared they get when my voice gets loud. I hate it when my voice gets loud. I hate remembering the feeling and I hate bringing it on to them. I even hate scooping them up afterward and saying I’m sorry. But I love what happens in my body when I hold them and hold myself. I love that the second after I do, I hold my own mother and every mother I know. God, I spend so much time thinking about my own Mom, wishing I could go back in time and seep into her all the grace and love and gentleness this world has to offer. Wishing that in the endless shapes and voids of parallel universes-my children and my mom and my dad could seep into me the same. Feeling endlessly frustrated that it takes lifetimes not lives to endure the exquisite imbalance of pain and healing. I spend so much time thinking about what I get wrong, almost no time thinking about what I got right and tucked inside all regular adult human thoughts- “in this moment- I wonder what they’re feeling.” I’m learning to untangle on my days without them, how to feel the sun on my face, how to see straight upside down and walk without limbs etc, still automatically waking up for sleep regressions they’ve long since outgrown. Still feeling the urge to watch their chest rise and fall three times before I can fall back asleep. Still feeling myself as a child wanting to scream with the unbridled anguish that my children do. The other day when she did, she turned to me and said “Mama, I just need extra care” and that’s the proudest moment I’ve ever felt as a mother. That’s the only “got it right” feeling that cast a shadow long enough for me to see clearly. So, Moms- today I wish for you the voice to say “I just need extra care,” and I wish for you someone to receive it. I also wish for you to watch Bluey- s2 ep 26. 🫶
For the most part, I think I’m a good mom. I witness them, they’re clean and fed and happy-and when they’re not- I try to imagine myself as a polymorphous energy of stillness and compassion- I love them to the ends of the earth. Yet, sometimes mothering feels like my 5 year old and I taking turns shouting “I’m feeling overwhelmed!” -her new favorite phrase and my most regular feeling. I hate how scared they get when my voice gets loud. I hate it when my voice gets loud. I hate remembering the feeling and I hate bringing it on to them. I even hate scooping them up afterward and saying I’m sorry. But I love what happens in my body when I hold them and hold myself. I love that the second after I do, I hold my own mother and every mother I know. God, I spend so much time thinking about my own Mom, wishing I could go back in time and seep into her all the grace and love and gentleness this world has to offer. Wishing that in the endless shapes and voids of parallel universes-my children and my mom and my dad could seep into me the same. Feeling endlessly frustrated that it takes lifetimes not lives to endure the exquisite imbalance of pain and healing. I spend so much time thinking about what I get wrong, almost no time thinking about what I got right and tucked inside all regular adult human thoughts- “in this moment- I wonder what they’re feeling.” I’m learning to untangle on my days without them, how to feel the sun on my face, how to see straight upside down and walk without limbs etc, still automatically waking up for sleep regressions they’ve long since outgrown. Still feeling the urge to watch their chest rise and fall three times before I can fall back asleep. Still feeling myself as a child wanting to scream with the unbridled anguish that my children do. The other day when she did, she turned to me and said “Mama, I just need extra care” and that’s the proudest moment I’ve ever felt as a mother. That’s the only “got it right” feeling that cast a shadow long enough for me to see clearly. So, Moms- today I wish for you the voice to say “I just need extra care,” and I wish for you someone to receive it. I also wish for you to watch Bluey- s2 ep 26. 🫶
For the most part, I think I’m a good mom. I witness them, they’re clean and fed and happy-and when they’re not- I try to imagine myself as a polymorphous energy of stillness and compassion- I love them to the ends of the earth. Yet, sometimes mothering feels like my 5 year old and I taking turns shouting “I’m feeling overwhelmed!” -her new favorite phrase and my most regular feeling. I hate how scared they get when my voice gets loud. I hate it when my voice gets loud. I hate remembering the feeling and I hate bringing it on to them. I even hate scooping them up afterward and saying I’m sorry. But I love what happens in my body when I hold them and hold myself. I love that the second after I do, I hold my own mother and every mother I know. God, I spend so much time thinking about my own Mom, wishing I could go back in time and seep into her all the grace and love and gentleness this world has to offer. Wishing that in the endless shapes and voids of parallel universes-my children and my mom and my dad could seep into me the same. Feeling endlessly frustrated that it takes lifetimes not lives to endure the exquisite imbalance of pain and healing. I spend so much time thinking about what I get wrong, almost no time thinking about what I got right and tucked inside all regular adult human thoughts- “in this moment- I wonder what they’re feeling.” I’m learning to untangle on my days without them, how to feel the sun on my face, how to see straight upside down and walk without limbs etc, still automatically waking up for sleep regressions they’ve long since outgrown. Still feeling the urge to watch their chest rise and fall three times before I can fall back asleep. Still feeling myself as a child wanting to scream with the unbridled anguish that my children do. The other day when she did, she turned to me and said “Mama, I just need extra care” and that’s the proudest moment I’ve ever felt as a mother. That’s the only “got it right” feeling that cast a shadow long enough for me to see clearly. So, Moms- today I wish for you the voice to say “I just need extra care,” and I wish for you someone to receive it. I also wish for you to watch Bluey- s2 ep 26. 🫶
For the most part, I think I’m a good mom. I witness them, they’re clean and fed and happy-and when they’re not- I try to imagine myself as a polymorphous energy of stillness and compassion- I love them to the ends of the earth. Yet, sometimes mothering feels like my 5 year old and I taking turns shouting “I’m feeling overwhelmed!” -her new favorite phrase and my most regular feeling. I hate how scared they get when my voice gets loud. I hate it when my voice gets loud. I hate remembering the feeling and I hate bringing it on to them. I even hate scooping them up afterward and saying I’m sorry. But I love what happens in my body when I hold them and hold myself. I love that the second after I do, I hold my own mother and every mother I know. God, I spend so much time thinking about my own Mom, wishing I could go back in time and seep into her all the grace and love and gentleness this world has to offer. Wishing that in the endless shapes and voids of parallel universes-my children and my mom and my dad could seep into me the same. Feeling endlessly frustrated that it takes lifetimes not lives to endure the exquisite imbalance of pain and healing. I spend so much time thinking about what I get wrong, almost no time thinking about what I got right and tucked inside all regular adult human thoughts- “in this moment- I wonder what they’re feeling.” I’m learning to untangle on my days without them, how to feel the sun on my face, how to see straight upside down and walk without limbs etc, still automatically waking up for sleep regressions they’ve long since outgrown. Still feeling the urge to watch their chest rise and fall three times before I can fall back asleep. Still feeling myself as a child wanting to scream with the unbridled anguish that my children do. The other day when she did, she turned to me and said “Mama, I just need extra care” and that’s the proudest moment I’ve ever felt as a mother. That’s the only “got it right” feeling that cast a shadow long enough for me to see clearly. So, Moms- today I wish for you the voice to say “I just need extra care,” and I wish for you someone to receive it. I also wish for you to watch Bluey- s2 ep 26. 🫶
For the most part, I think I’m a good mom. I witness them, they’re clean and fed and happy-and when they’re not- I try to imagine myself as a polymorphous energy of stillness and compassion- I love them to the ends of the earth. Yet, sometimes mothering feels like my 5 year old and I taking turns shouting “I’m feeling overwhelmed!” -her new favorite phrase and my most regular feeling. I hate how scared they get when my voice gets loud. I hate it when my voice gets loud. I hate remembering the feeling and I hate bringing it on to them. I even hate scooping them up afterward and saying I’m sorry. But I love what happens in my body when I hold them and hold myself. I love that the second after I do, I hold my own mother and every mother I know. God, I spend so much time thinking about my own Mom, wishing I could go back in time and seep into her all the grace and love and gentleness this world has to offer. Wishing that in the endless shapes and voids of parallel universes-my children and my mom and my dad could seep into me the same. Feeling endlessly frustrated that it takes lifetimes not lives to endure the exquisite imbalance of pain and healing. I spend so much time thinking about what I get wrong, almost no time thinking about what I got right and tucked inside all regular adult human thoughts- “in this moment- I wonder what they’re feeling.” I’m learning to untangle on my days without them, how to feel the sun on my face, how to see straight upside down and walk without limbs etc, still automatically waking up for sleep regressions they’ve long since outgrown. Still feeling the urge to watch their chest rise and fall three times before I can fall back asleep. Still feeling myself as a child wanting to scream with the unbridled anguish that my children do. The other day when she did, she turned to me and said “Mama, I just need extra care” and that’s the proudest moment I’ve ever felt as a mother. That’s the only “got it right” feeling that cast a shadow long enough for me to see clearly. So, Moms- today I wish for you the voice to say “I just need extra care,” and I wish for you someone to receive it. I also wish for you to watch Bluey- s2 ep 26. 🫶
33.
Today you’re 6. This is the closest in age we have ever been because I remember 6 so well. I remember my first crush, I remember sunsets and ice cream. I remember liking the feeling of some clothes & hating others- a conundrum that obliterates both our nervous systems most mornings at this time. I remember watching my mom in a sea of other moms after kindergarten and wondering if I had the choice would I still pick her. I always did. I remember all the knots of pain in my life still being loose ends. I remember already wishing for you. You’re 6 but you’re the smartest person I know. You’re 6 but you communicate your feelings with gobsmacking clarity- you know what is precious and true. You’re 6 but I can still carry you from school to the car. You still have 19 baby teeth, just one missing (a right hook from time that could well, knock your teeth out.) You’re 6 but you are a wise and gentle healer. I had this vision of you recently, you were a mermaid and I was looking at you through a pane of glass- seated on a bench of an aquarium looking up at the constellation of your big little life. It was the first time I really realized our separateness. You were glorious and fully realized- breathing underwater without me. The metaphor so poignant because among the many things I’m yet to learn at 33, I still can’t swim. When you tell me you can’t sleep at night, we do this ritual where I have you tap your shoulders and say “I’m here, I’m safe, I’m safe in my body, I’m safe with myself.” I assure you that I am near, that I always will be. God, what a different life if someone had told me I was safe with myself. But maybe it takes sitting on a bench in a dream-state seeing your baby breathe underwater to realize we all just belong to ourselves. Ezer, my wish for you is that you stay there waving through the glass and that you always move away from those who refuse to see you so clearly. Hearing you say it back to me “I’m here, I’m safe, I’m safe in my body, I’m safe with myself” has given me a set of loose ends I thought I’d never get back. Happy birthday my baby. You are forever the realization of my truest dream. I love you the most.
Today you’re 6. This is the closest in age we have ever been because I remember 6 so well. I remember my first crush, I remember sunsets and ice cream. I remember liking the feeling of some clothes & hating others- a conundrum that obliterates both our nervous systems most mornings at this time. I remember watching my mom in a sea of other moms after kindergarten and wondering if I had the choice would I still pick her. I always did. I remember all the knots of pain in my life still being loose ends. I remember already wishing for you. You’re 6 but you’re the smartest person I know. You’re 6 but you communicate your feelings with gobsmacking clarity- you know what is precious and true. You’re 6 but I can still carry you from school to the car. You still have 19 baby teeth, just one missing (a right hook from time that could well, knock your teeth out.) You’re 6 but you are a wise and gentle healer. I had this vision of you recently, you were a mermaid and I was looking at you through a pane of glass- seated on a bench of an aquarium looking up at the constellation of your big little life. It was the first time I really realized our separateness. You were glorious and fully realized- breathing underwater without me. The metaphor so poignant because among the many things I’m yet to learn at 33, I still can’t swim. When you tell me you can’t sleep at night, we do this ritual where I have you tap your shoulders and say “I’m here, I’m safe, I’m safe in my body, I’m safe with myself.” I assure you that I am near, that I always will be. God, what a different life if someone had told me I was safe with myself. But maybe it takes sitting on a bench in a dream-state seeing your baby breathe underwater to realize we all just belong to ourselves. Ezer, my wish for you is that you stay there waving through the glass and that you always move away from those who refuse to see you so clearly. Hearing you say it back to me “I’m here, I’m safe, I’m safe in my body, I’m safe with myself” has given me a set of loose ends I thought I’d never get back. Happy birthday my baby. You are forever the realization of my truest dream. I love you the most.
Today you’re 6. This is the closest in age we have ever been because I remember 6 so well. I remember my first crush, I remember sunsets and ice cream. I remember liking the feeling of some clothes & hating others- a conundrum that obliterates both our nervous systems most mornings at this time. I remember watching my mom in a sea of other moms after kindergarten and wondering if I had the choice would I still pick her. I always did. I remember all the knots of pain in my life still being loose ends. I remember already wishing for you. You’re 6 but you’re the smartest person I know. You’re 6 but you communicate your feelings with gobsmacking clarity- you know what is precious and true. You’re 6 but I can still carry you from school to the car. You still have 19 baby teeth, just one missing (a right hook from time that could well, knock your teeth out.) You’re 6 but you are a wise and gentle healer. I had this vision of you recently, you were a mermaid and I was looking at you through a pane of glass- seated on a bench of an aquarium looking up at the constellation of your big little life. It was the first time I really realized our separateness. You were glorious and fully realized- breathing underwater without me. The metaphor so poignant because among the many things I’m yet to learn at 33, I still can’t swim. When you tell me you can’t sleep at night, we do this ritual where I have you tap your shoulders and say “I’m here, I’m safe, I’m safe in my body, I’m safe with myself.” I assure you that I am near, that I always will be. God, what a different life if someone had told me I was safe with myself. But maybe it takes sitting on a bench in a dream-state seeing your baby breathe underwater to realize we all just belong to ourselves. Ezer, my wish for you is that you stay there waving through the glass and that you always move away from those who refuse to see you so clearly. Hearing you say it back to me “I’m here, I’m safe, I’m safe in my body, I’m safe with myself” has given me a set of loose ends I thought I’d never get back. Happy birthday my baby. You are forever the realization of my truest dream. I love you the most.
Today you’re 6. This is the closest in age we have ever been because I remember 6 so well. I remember my first crush, I remember sunsets and ice cream. I remember liking the feeling of some clothes & hating others- a conundrum that obliterates both our nervous systems most mornings at this time. I remember watching my mom in a sea of other moms after kindergarten and wondering if I had the choice would I still pick her. I always did. I remember all the knots of pain in my life still being loose ends. I remember already wishing for you. You’re 6 but you’re the smartest person I know. You’re 6 but you communicate your feelings with gobsmacking clarity- you know what is precious and true. You’re 6 but I can still carry you from school to the car. You still have 19 baby teeth, just one missing (a right hook from time that could well, knock your teeth out.) You’re 6 but you are a wise and gentle healer. I had this vision of you recently, you were a mermaid and I was looking at you through a pane of glass- seated on a bench of an aquarium looking up at the constellation of your big little life. It was the first time I really realized our separateness. You were glorious and fully realized- breathing underwater without me. The metaphor so poignant because among the many things I’m yet to learn at 33, I still can’t swim. When you tell me you can’t sleep at night, we do this ritual where I have you tap your shoulders and say “I’m here, I’m safe, I’m safe in my body, I’m safe with myself.” I assure you that I am near, that I always will be. God, what a different life if someone had told me I was safe with myself. But maybe it takes sitting on a bench in a dream-state seeing your baby breathe underwater to realize we all just belong to ourselves. Ezer, my wish for you is that you stay there waving through the glass and that you always move away from those who refuse to see you so clearly. Hearing you say it back to me “I’m here, I’m safe, I’m safe in my body, I’m safe with myself” has given me a set of loose ends I thought I’d never get back. Happy birthday my baby. You are forever the realization of my truest dream. I love you the most.
Dear Dolores Wild,
They say a heartbeat is more unique than a fingerprint. Its waveforms so distinct we can tell each other apart by its sound. Your heartbeat is probably the sound I know best in this world. I knew it so well as the only constant for weeks on end in hospital before you arrived. But I don’t just know it’s sound, I know how big, tender and sensitive it is. I know that when you’re having a hard time you crawl into my lap spin around with your back to my chest so our hearts are perfectly aligned. That was the first big move you ever made, crawling into being held- not chest to chest but heart to heart. It’s so deeply peaceful, even three years later I exhale and think, we made it, we’re here. And here you are, three years old, so loving, so discerning, so bold and cheeky, so deep and knowing. It’s a mystery what lifetime you are on but it’s clear you know something we all don’t. I am truly humbled and honored to be your mom, you are my greatest teacher and my greatest joy. Your feet still weigh 100lbs, you still love sharp objects and glasses of wine, you still love to touch and connect and to be close but now you love talking about it all and hearing you talk? That’s the best thing that has ever happened. Last night you asked me to rock you like a baby, this morning you blew out a candle and I swear you made a wish. My wish for you is that all the hearts you find in this life will bring you the peace and belonging that yours does mine. Perfectly aligned, breathing it all in. You are perfection my sweet girl. I love you, I love you, I love you.
Today you turn 4. I’m instantly called to the first time I held you in my arms, a feeling rushed with so much joy and such relief, I’ll never get over it. I often joke about the little ways you out yourself on your many lives here before us- cupping your hand over your mouth to smell your own breath, saying “now her voice will be different” when your sister lost her first tooth. Looking over at me at a party and saying “are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I have never been so stunned by a person so completely so all of the time. When you were 2 months old I played Chopin in our newborn haze, your lip was downturned quivering and your eyes filled with tears. A genius, I thought. But what I have learned in these last 4 years is that you are holding a wisdom that most of us are just beginning to touch. A memory, I know. Your laugh takes up your whole body and your whole body moves like it’s 10x heavier than it actually is. You remind me of my mother, and my mother of me; a healing conduit of time travel for us both. You don’t like it when it’s loud and often “feel shy of people”. You always want to go home and always want to sleep in. You are always hungry for something yummy and you always want to snuggle. This summer we went to a water park and on the lazy river holding me tightly as the warm water carried us gently, round and round- you looked at me and we spoke telepathically as we often do. You said “do you remember?” I said “yes of course I do.” You said “let’s stay forever” I said “baby this is what remembering is for” I have spent a lot of time watching you be wary of the world, building a hard shell for your delicate center but these last few weeks I have seen you crack open. An entirely new version of the joy/relief for me to unpack. When we got out of the lazy river I wrapped you up in a towel and held you in my arms (the best way to get a glimpse of your newborn baby while they are in toddler form) and I swear on your life and all things holy in this world- you looked up at me and said “E.T. phone home.” Well, my little extra terrestrial, this big scary world has called on you again and I think you must be here to change it. I love you infinitely.
Today you turn 4. I’m instantly called to the first time I held you in my arms, a feeling rushed with so much joy and such relief, I’ll never get over it. I often joke about the little ways you out yourself on your many lives here before us- cupping your hand over your mouth to smell your own breath, saying “now her voice will be different” when your sister lost her first tooth. Looking over at me at a party and saying “are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I have never been so stunned by a person so completely so all of the time. When you were 2 months old I played Chopin in our newborn haze, your lip was downturned quivering and your eyes filled with tears. A genius, I thought. But what I have learned in these last 4 years is that you are holding a wisdom that most of us are just beginning to touch. A memory, I know. Your laugh takes up your whole body and your whole body moves like it’s 10x heavier than it actually is. You remind me of my mother, and my mother of me; a healing conduit of time travel for us both. You don’t like it when it’s loud and often “feel shy of people”. You always want to go home and always want to sleep in. You are always hungry for something yummy and you always want to snuggle. This summer we went to a water park and on the lazy river holding me tightly as the warm water carried us gently, round and round- you looked at me and we spoke telepathically as we often do. You said “do you remember?” I said “yes of course I do.” You said “let’s stay forever” I said “baby this is what remembering is for” I have spent a lot of time watching you be wary of the world, building a hard shell for your delicate center but these last few weeks I have seen you crack open. An entirely new version of the joy/relief for me to unpack. When we got out of the lazy river I wrapped you up in a towel and held you in my arms (the best way to get a glimpse of your newborn baby while they are in toddler form) and I swear on your life and all things holy in this world- you looked up at me and said “E.T. phone home.” Well, my little extra terrestrial, this big scary world has called on you again and I think you must be here to change it. I love you infinitely.
Tomorrow! Stream season 3 of @startup_crackle and watch me side-eye the whole way through 👀
Happy 30th birthday to my favorite sibling and style icon.
Just a few days until the premiere of @startup_crackle season 3 November 1st on @sonycrackle 🤘🏻
@bdisgusting drops exclusive first-look images of Fessenden’s BLACKOUT! See the rest of the images at Bloody Disgusting, link in bio!
BLACKOUT premieres at @fantasiafestival tomorrow! Go see it!
