I picked you up this morning to bury you in hugs before I had to leave for work and I could swear that you had grown taller overnight.
I think you're getting bigger, Little Man.
I swung you around and said, 'Not bigger! You need to stay my little baby forever!" and then you tried to repeat what I said because that's just what you do right now and the way you said, "No bigger baby ever!" made me laugh.
But I do think you're taller and it scares me just a little because I JUST got you and I NEED MORE TIME.
I need the years we lost.
The years when you were in Haiti and I was here and the Haitian government didn't want to process papers so you could come home.
The years that I didn't know if you were OK and you didn't know if anyone cared and we both could have answered each others concerns but the governments wouldn't let us be together yet.
I need to rock you through your infancy and nuzzle your little neck as you start to crawl and swing you around as you chase me when you learn to walk.
We lost that, you and I. But I want you to know that doesn't make us any less "one" than if we'd had it.
I can still snuggle you and wrap you up in my arms and relish the way you just seem to fit tucked into my shoulder.
I don't even mind the superbly toxic Chambers of Haitian Secrets that are your "stinky butts" (as Papa's taught you to call your dirty diapers). I'll change them for a few more years if you'll just promise me that you won't grow up yet.
You are such a joy, Little Man. You are a silly, wacky, busy, happy, stubborn, temper-ridden ball of goodness. And I can't believe you're mine.
I have to admit that I am constantly in awe of you. Sometimes I find myself staring at you and wondering how in the world you came to be and why I'm so blessed to get to be your Mama and if I'll ever get over marveling at how amazing you are.
This evening, I told one of my coworkers I needed to head home so I could see my son.
I don't think you'll ever know how amazing it is to me that I HAVE A SON.
You've done for me something that I couldn't do - you made me a Mommy. I know that sounds silly and that no one can really make themselves a Mommy, but that's what I mean.
Things just didn't work. And the doctors didn't know why and we didn't know why and I didn't know if I'd ever be a Mommy but you did and Heavenly Father did.
Now I know that I wasn't a Mommy yet because I needed that ache in my heart to grow and grow to where it carried me to you, clear across the country and over the water to the tiny island where you were... sitting... in a boring stuffy house that only had 3 bedrooms but had 68 kids and not enough not enough not enough.
"'Not enough' what?" you ask.
"Anything...Not enough anything." Not enough room. Not enough beds. Not enough toys. Not enough food. Not enough love.
And then the earth moved and the buildings fell and hearts changed and they let us bring you home.
I love when we're playing on the floor together, both making "car noises" and driving your trucks, and you look up at me with the most vibrant, sparkling smile that seems to say, "Mama... this is the best day ever!"
I adore that crooked grin you get when something you were trying to do finally works and you're trying to pretend that you're not amazed yourself that it finally came together so you're trying to suppress the grin that is bursting to break out. Your "modesty" makes me giggle.
Today Papa taught you how to say, "Hello, baby. What's your sign?" and then you called me at work to share your new pickup line. I love the little inflection in your voice when you say, "Hel-low, BAY-bee", trying to imitate Papa's "fake sexy voice".
I chuckle that you think you can get out of going to bed by pretending the thing you need more than anything else in the world is a hug from Mama RIGHT THEN.
I'm so on to you, Little Man.
Of course, you'll still get the hug because you've been through horrible things and you've been on such a tiring journey to get to this place where you have your own room and you actually HAVE a bed.
We learned this last week of some of the other horrors that you and your friends from the O had to endure and I can't believe you're all sane. You're strong, Little Man. You're stronger than Mama, but Mama won't tell you that.
It's one of the rules, I think. The Mamas are supposed to pretend like they're fine and not that their hearts are breaking over what you've already endured. And I don't know what I can ever do that will be enough to make up for what you've had to live through.
But having you home... that's enough.
Just don't grow up yet. I'm not ready.