As you know, you were “floating around in the sky” for quite a while waiting to come join our family. It wasn’t easy for me to get pregnant. And it wasn’t easy for me to stay pregnant. And there are days when I forget that. When I forget that heartwarming sound of your two heartbeats, both strong and for real this time. I forget because I’m frustrated that you’ve asked me the same question about when Alexander Hamilton died fifteen times even though I’ve answered you ten times already (that day. Not to mention the 100 other times I’ve answered every other day). I snap and answer through gritted teeth. I’m not proud. And I don’t stop to realize that you’re 4. And you’re listening to the Hamilton soundtrack. And you’re legitimately interested in what transpired because you’re curious. So I want to rewind time and just answer the question. I think, if I just answered it without anger, maybe the information will sink in this time even though I know that’s unlikely. Because you just want to be heard. You just want to talk to me, engage with me remind me that you’re here. I know you’re here.
Trust me. I still wake up every morning and if it’s before you both, I lie and wait to hear your feet hit the ground and the flinging of the door against the wall to know you’re coming in to say “hi.” When I see your face – even if it’s in the middle of the night asking for more water or for the stuffed animal you “lost” that’s in your bed right next to your pillow – I see what it was all for. The wonder in both of your big gorgeous eyes is so consuming. I want to fill your lives with magic. I want to tell you stories (true, historical ones, sure, but dreamy, fictional ones too). I don’t want you to really stop asking, I never want you to stop asking.