How unimaginable that the last time I wrote here was in 2023, and now it is 2026.
When the night ends you will wake up as the next version of yourself–a kindergartener, a little person walking into a big school. I know how wonderful you are and I hope that everyone else is as delighted with you as I am.

Here are my hopes for you, baby:
I hope you see your own bright smile shining back at you from friendly faces.
I hope your imaginative stories are reciprocated and expanded.
I hope you are courageous and compassionate.
I hope your curiosity is piqued and nurtured, and that you discover new passions.
I hope you find friends who treat you with the respect and love that you deserve.
I hope you always remember that your daddy and I are proud of you.

I’m thankful for the snapshots of parenting that I recorded here a few years ago. Reading about our trip to the zoo and the mannerisms you had at 1.5 helped me to remember the things that I had forgotten in the chaos of life. You still pepper me with kisses all over my face and neck. Recently you have taken special pleasure in planting extra sloppy kisses. I know that won’t last much longer…there are some things that Kindergarten takes away. You ask to be held at every opportunity. I still pick you up, just like I did when you were 1.5 years old in 2023, except now I mostly give you piggyback rides because my arms burn immediately. This too might go away soon, as I step into the role of school teacher as well as mom. I try not to think about all of the things that will end up changing. You’re still going to always be my little baby. The one I stare at adoringly as you tell a story or when you’re praying at the dinner table. You may be taller, thinner, cheeks less round, and too big to fit comfortably into my lap, but you’re still my baby. That will never change.

I love you!

We went to the zoo today without a stroller. We should have brought one, but we didn’t. So when your little 1.5 year old legs got tired from marching along paved paths to the animal enclosures you raised your arms up and said, “hug.” Truthfully, my arms already began to ache when we walked from the parking garage to the front entrance. But you and I both know that if you ask to be held I will do my best to hold you. There were moments when I convinced you to walk, hop, and run beside me. Your cheerful nature, always ready for a song and dance, temporarily erased any memory of fatigued feet and prompted a trebly “let’s go!” Off you went giving me a few more minutes of respite. When you did finally remember me, I scooped you up, and your sweetness bandaged up any ripping muscles.

I never want to forget your little hands cupping my cheeks as you requested “beemo” or “e-i-o.” I’ve sung those songs entirely too many times now, but I’ll sing them again for you for the same reason I’ll hold you whenever I can. Through the zoo we went, singing into each other’s faces. It was one of the best parts of the day. Sometimes your hands would sift through my hair and then clutch it tightly as if for security. I’m in awe that in the same way I can’t get over squeezing your arms and legs you show the same wonder in patting and poking my body. Your delighted giggles and belly laughs echo in the bathroom during your bath and in the open air on the playground. I can’t help thinking about how my parents must have felt when we laughed together in my toddlerhood. I hope we laugh hard and hold onto each other for as many years as we’re allowed.

You are the sweetest of them all. ❤

snapshot 1
There are so many people and suddenly I feel tender. I look for my toddler and stay as close to him as I can. Just being next to him grounds me. I lean my forehead against his and take comfort in his proximity. This is not a loss of identity. This is home.

snapshot 2
My student comes to me with arms wide open. Today I hug her as close to me as I would hold my own child. Another student drags his feet down the hall. We’ve had a few difficult lessons with each other this year. “I don’t want to be here today!” he grumbles. The bear hug that I just gave his classmate has inspired me. With a little bit of convincing, he lets me hug him tight. He doesn’t know that this hug helps me as much as it helps him.

snapshot 3
The sun and the clouds bicker over whether the day will end in gold or dark gray. I’m personally rooting for the sun so my melancholy mood doesn’t have a reason to stick around. They come to a truce–a few minutes of light rain before the sun throws its yellow robes across the heavens as it exits. It’s as good a sign as any to wrap up my dreary thoughts for the day.

snapshot 4
Thoughts about dreams:
What if they offered a class on creative dreaming instead of creative writing? My dreams are much too serious.
“…and even in my dreams you won’t say the words I want to hear the most”
“This is what dreams are made of, just not mine.”

On occasion I long for spontaneous, passion-driven adventure that is foreign to my daily routine. Foreign because my days are structured down to the hour. Any unplanned moment welcomes potential chaos and frantic improvisation, both uncomfortable enough to avoid as often as necessary.

There have been many evenings this summer, however, when I’ve looked at the sky and wished I could transport myself to the edge of the world. Just one romantic glimpse of the ocean or one existential view of the open sky as it fades from sunset to starlit night. But on evenings like tonight I walk the dog in the rain to the melancholy notes of “Lovers in Japan”, without a raincoat or an umbrella, embracing the whimsy of damp hair and stained glasses.

I don’t know what to write.
I start and stop a hundred different ideas because they’re both exhausting to complete and inadequate at portraying what I want them to portray.
I don’t have the artistry to paint a picture that satisfies my angst. No camera lens can capture the bittersweet beauty that I find as I look at the clouds, moon, and stars. Breathtaking, as I whisper out a “hi” to the heavens. Writing poetry or lyrics seems contrived. Metaphors and insinuations repulse me when all I want to do is find some clarity.

Broken fragments– ‘potential‘, ‘what if’, ‘never again’— jam together, tangled in a mess that my mind can’t quite iron out for myself, much less anyone else.
Alongside these words are the deep wells of emotion that I fall into suddenly without warning.
They look like lips chewed furiously in an attempt to tame sobs. They sound like sentences unexpectedly coming to a halt. They feel like weights on my chest as I wander around the rest of my day, waiting for something to unload them.

Somehow the fastest way out of the emotional depths of mourning is to simply speak. Not to everyone or anyone, but to the friends God has given me. People who can grasp my piecemeal thoughts and realize that in verbalizing all of my irrational musings I become more grounded. I don’t need to be fixed…I just need to be heard because the echo chamber in my head is much too loud on my own.

Cotton candy skies melt before my eyes
Until there’s only dark blue over the highway
I wonder how I’ve loved someone
Who was never really mine
I miss the potential of you.

— an Incomplete Song Aug. 2022