Everything but the writing

On Motherhood: Maybe one day I’ll learn to coexist with the person I used to be and the person I am now.

I received a notebook as a gift. The cover was blue and it said, “Notes for my son” across the front. I wrote to you as if you were already here. The words poured out of me like tree sap. Thick and sweet and full of substance. The kind of words that nourished. I wrote to you as if I’d known you my whole life. I believe a piece of me has always known you. I knew you but I couldn’t find you. And now that you’re here, I rarely pick up my pen. I can’t seem to bring my fingers to the keys. 

I stare at you. 

I hold you. 

I bury my face into the warmth of your neck. 

I hold your sticky little hand. 

I kiss every finger. 

I kiss your cheeks. 

I kiss your feet. 

I marvel at how long and dark your eyelashes are. 

I melt at your smile.

I do everything but write. 

Before you, that’s all I knew how to do. But now, every second you’re not with me, I miss you. 

Like today, right now, I sit at a cafe that used to be the old newspaper building and think of you. I sit in the corner at a table for one with my decaf latte and try to write. Your dad is holding you at a table across the room so that I can sit by myself and focus—so that I can sit by myself and write. 

I can’t focus. I can’t write.

I glance over at the both of you, your little face peeking out from behind his shoulder, and I want to hold you.

But I’m supposed to focus. I’m supposed to write.

A family comes into the cafe and blocks my view of you. I crane my neck to look around their son to find you. He looks like he could be eight years old and the thought of you growing so fast makes my heart catch in my throat. He’s wearing a sunflower yellow sweatshirt and I think about what your favorite color will be. He’s holding his mother’s hand and I think about how I can’t wait for you to reach for me, to slide your tiny fingers into mine.

This is why I can’t focus. This is why I can’t write.

Your dad is patting your back now and you look happy and content. I can feel a smile unravel across my face and I have to fight the urge to get up from my lonely little table to take you into my arms. 

It’s a force. 

A magnetic pull. 

Please forgive me, my darling, if the letters dwindle and the words are sparse. 

Know that I love you and my head is full of words. Words for you and about you. 

Maybe one day I’ll get all the words on the page. Maybe one day I’ll learn to coexist with the person I used to be and the person I am now. I’ll learn to set you down. I’ll learn to focus. I’ll learn to write—again.

But for now, while you still fit in my arms, I’m going to hold you. I’m going to breathe you in and try not to cry.