I love Anders. I love him so much that when I find a quiet moment to write — something that is as essential to my well-being as sleep or sustenance — the words that make their way from my brain, to my fingertips, to the screen are often about him. I want to capture him.
Decades from now I want to remember the way his baby-fine hair felt in the crook of my neck as I rocked him to sleep. I want to read these words and know that his third birthday was just as bittersweet as his thirtieth, to let keystrokes connect the years, and ease the pain of the passage of time.
We are already so far from that quiet hospital room, from our first meeting, from the awkward moments of early motherhood. I write this now with the hands of a woman who has spent five years diapering and feeding and comforting her children, but it is the stories written by the mother I was with only days of experience that matter most to me at present.
In times when I feel I am failing him, when we reach a stage in his life that frustrates me to tears, they are evidence that we have both matured, that we have met obstacles together before, and persevered. And when he pulls his hand from mine, when he walks with confidence into a crowded room, it is in these words that I am able to once again revel in the little boy that clung to my legs, that found a simple solace in my nearness.
My son is my muse and these words are my modern day baby book written as much for his benefit as my own.