We watched snips and clips of Biden’s State of the Union today. It was a replay. Streamed on YouTube. Because obviously, I didn’t watch it in real-time. I’m too insulated in this little love bubble we’ve created. Between washing bottles, and cradling you in my arms, while ensuring the dogs have been fed. Your dad always makes me a latte to start the day before the blur of exhaustion ensues. This, my son, is the true sign of love and selflessness; especially if we remember to seal the deal with a kiss among the blurry chaos. Remember this.

The caffeine kicks into high gear, whether it’s healing from zombie remnants of 4 am feedings or transitioning out of a lovely sunlit lazy morning. In bed with colorful stories, puppy snuggles, and nipple- meets diaper- meets “what should we wear today” outfit discussions (which are frankly, choices between pajamas and pajamas). You are a reality and a dream; an alien anomaly and a beloved sage; a being we have the privilege of waking up to every day. I am still in awe. 

Tonight I held you in my arms. We rocked away, trying to avoid hitting the wall in our tiny bedroom corner. It’s peaceful. I sing as if no one can hear; hum hoping everyone can. “You’re my baby.” The vibrations hit my chest and pulse through yours. I can feel it. It’s undeniable. “Sweet baby, would you be my, sweet love for a lifetime; I’ll be there when you need me, just call and receive me.” Our hearts are beating together. You squirm a bit, hoping to not miss out on anything going on outside of this dark square space, full of false ocean wave sounds. Again, it’s peaceful. And a facade at the same time. The curtains you love, with enticing circular patterns, start to change from a glow to muted dark pause. Suddenly, there’s not much more to tune into except for each other. We happily oblige.

Your body goes limp, your head relaxes and settles into my chest, just so. We breathe. I keep humming. You wheeze, just enough to let me know you’re here with every note. I start to cry. The tears are long; full, but quiet. Every other chord, I catch my breath between the silent streams from my eyes. My body pulses, searching for inhales, interrupting our lullaby. You don’t mind. Instead, you flow into the rhythm. 

You’re here. Your weight is undeniable. Your cheeks snuggle up next to mine in a way only mother and son could accomplish. I love you. I love you an amount I never knew was possible. I can feel my heart emulating my body, and surrounding you. Surrounding us. Taking in every single rock of this chair. Holding your relaxed arm, feeling it naturally hang around my neck. I wrap mine around your torso as if to never let go. It’s cheesy, cliche, but I get it. I feel the initiation of what it means to enter motherhood at this exact moment. And I never want to let it go. 

You’re getting surgery on Wednesday. Your Oma passed on a Saturday. Our president spoke on Monday. There are multiple wars happening across the globe as I type. Physical, geographical, philosophical, social. You’re in my arms asleep on a Friday. What is now? What is the future? What will happen after this moment? We don’t know. And that’s ok. It’s ok to not know. 

What I do know is this: Brooks, you are strong, and you are safe. I love you more than I’ve ever known how to love. You have defied everything I thought I knew. So. It’s ok not to know.

In time, we will. Because we have this. Together. Right now. And we’ll remember.