on baking cookies

we have had a virus cycling through our house for the past two weeks now. first dad, then you and now me. i am having the hardest time being the mom i want to be this week. my patience is beyond limited. my head is throbbing, and your needs are that of a two-year-old.

but today, we baked cookies anyway. actually, i did all of the mixing and scooping and baking, but you did the very best of the eating.

the cookies were of the chocolate variety, which you cannot seem to get enough of these days, and you had the very hardest time waiting for them to cool, as you do. we were eating them together standing in the kitchen, you on your chair and me on my feet, and i realized something. never in my life, until you came along, have i enjoyed warm cookies the way that we do. the proper way.

i love cookies. i always have. i've baked them for years, but never with a sous chef or a taste tester. i make them, quickly make work of one or two, and then i save them for someone or something else. but with you we make them to enjoy them.

we go through the process together. i usually let you throw flour all around, while i mix everything together. you watch me carefully as i place them in the oven knowing full well that gratification is around the corner. we check the oven periodically to watch them rise and spread. then we remove them and the real fun begins. we check and we check and we check again, until they are just cool enough. then we pour a couple of glasses of milk. we assume our routine positons (you standing on your chair and me on my feet). and we eat. and we eat maybe one more.

but they taste so delicious and so perfect. and i wonder why. i think maybe it's because you love them as much as i do. or maybe because if you weren't around i wouldn't be baking these particular cookies in the first place. i don't think i can ever be sure. whatever the reason, i hope for the rest of my days cookies will be this way. this very proper way.

i love you so much, even on my worst of the worst days.

i cannot believe how lucky we are.

dear graham,

sometimes when i pick you up from daycare, i run the two blocks from here to there because i'm so excited to see you. and by sometimes, i mean most times. i love you,

mom

dear graham

i know this is morbid and awful to even think, but it crosses my mind.

i worry that if i die before you are old enough to remember me, you won't know how much i loved you. everyone will tell you, i know. and you'll believe them, mostly, except on days when everything is just too hard. well, i do love you. so much.

but... if i write these things down for you, just for insurance purposes, well then, i can stop worrying you'll miss out on some things. like this for instance.

you must eat at levain bakery. or at the very least have them shipped to you. it is so worth the ridiculous price, i can't even begin to explain. just eat them. eat them and know that you are your mother's son. because if you still love sweets when you are old enough to read this, like you do now, i'll be proud. just remember to brush your teeth!

graham, i love you so. and i hope you never need this, but it will be nice to have, when i'm suffering from mom brain and forget to share the little things every now and again.

p.s. they're all good, but the chocolate peanut butter is otherworldly.

on sleepless nights

lately, sleep has escaped me. why? who knows. heightened anxiety over everything is the name of my mind's game right now. which is unfortunate most of the time, but it has led me here, so maybe it's not all bad.

graham is growing at lightening speed these days. he's putting words together and counting to two. he's 'luboo' ing back when i say, 'i love you'. he snuggles, and he snuggles, and he snuggles. thank heavens, i am so glad that particular trait has not faded. he is as beautiful as ever and funny sometimes, too. 

every now and again, when i look at him, it feels like time freezes us for just a moment. there he is joyful as can be in the middle of the living room, sun streaming through the windows around us. there i am on my knees a few feet away smiling back. and nothing moves. his face imprints itself in my mind. and my insides begin to cry, for the time that will never be stopped and for the overwhelming hopes and dreams of a lifetime with my boy. my boy.

the blondest, bluest, tallest, little man. that one belongs to me. or i should say i belong to him? who knows anymore.

life is better now.

on songs and manners

today was a great day.

one of those great days you have pretty often, if you look close enough. and one that you might forget in the long run, but shouldn't.

graham and i established our 'song' today. he's almost two and it has taken us this long to really nail down a song that we both equally love and one that brings us both simultaneously joy and peace. we have 'twinkle, twinkle' for before bed. we have 'bushel and a peck' for after tub time. and 'you are my sunshine' just for fun. 'skidamarink' for laughs. but today i introduced graham to the greatness that is elton john's 'tiny dancer'. and the boy said, 'gen' (again) over and over. he loved it. and i did, too. here's hoping it sticks.

he was a glorious sharer today at play group, which i feel should be documented, because not everyday is good share day. ladies and gentleman, it was shocking, the restraint this child showed as he patiently awaited his turn for the bike. and then he even gave up control over one of the the riding bouncy balls, when he recognized that he had two and someone else had none. it was one of my proudest mama moments. that said, i am not expecting repeat greatness, but if it occurs, he gets all the credit.

today was nice, but winter is hard, and this season feels awfully itchy. i feel like turning my house right upside down and moving bedrooms and hanging pictures and cleaning the baseboards, you know? it's unfortunate how slow that kind of process can become with a toddler underfoot, but it's time to do some reorganizing and reprioritizing. so here's hoping for success or at least the gumption to keep trying.

cheers,
e