a year ago, to the minute exactly, I was in that foggy place, the place where you exist purely as instinct amongst shadows…I was there and I was fighting with every last shred of the fabric that bound us both together, fighting against everything that in the foggy place seemed right, knowing it was time for us to be separated, to be finally  ripped from each other, and breaking my body in two to make it so.

and in that heavy second where I was truly alone inside myself once more, with the whirlwind in my head blocking out all sound and light, I was scared I wouldn’t be able to find you in the dissipating fog. But you were there, still tethered to me, tiny roots that grew through me and grounded me to the earth, our souls still intrinsically anchored to each other, minds and hearts connected, where our bodies suddenly were not.

a year later and nothing has changed. you are everything.

i love you,

mom

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So B had his first birthday party on Saturday. And he cried. And he fussed. And for a lot of it, he was not happy. And I was worried. And I was anxious. And by 7 that night, he had a 102 fever and a nasty stomach virus.

But when he was happy, I swear to god rainbow beams were shooting out of his face. He gave his best friend Jonah kisses and ate his giant cupcake. There were cake pops and polka dots, teal velvet, and endless bubbles. Corn dogs and popcorn and candy and chicken wings. Pizza rolls and giant pretzels, hot chocolate and frozen drinks. Golden felt crowns and a bunny-masked pinata. A velociraptor with a top hat and a cupcake. A photo booth that went forgotten, volleyball and corn hole. Music and mayhem, painted balloons and metallic gold.

I don’t like kid’s parties. I don’t like the themes, or the awkward sitting, or awkward small talk, or staring at the kid while they cry and open presents and the like. I don’t like kid’s parties. So we didn’t have one.

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This is going to be a post about poop. Last night you stood up in the bathtub…and just started pooping. And in a semi-neurotic panic attack, I started jumping up and down, almost fell, pulled you out of the tub, squealed, gagged, then you fell and cried, so I wrapped you in a towel while trying to drain the tub and throw all your toys in the sink before they got all poopy, AND OH MY GOD EWWWWW, and then you pooped in the towel.

So.

This is only relevant because your uncle did the same thing when we were little. He was like…maybe two. And I was three, maybe four, so we were still taking bubble baths together before bedtime. Serious bubble baths, the kind where you can’t see any water. Just bubbles. And on one particular dark and stormy night I went to pick up the soap. But it was not soap. He had pooped. I picked up the poop, saw that it was poop, and promptly started screaming, and then we both cried.

The end.

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