07 January 2018


one ~ the edge of the frame, blurred, is the door to your room; will entering your nursery someday not feel like opening the wardrobe to narnia? 

two ~ your whole body will fit into these things...and how can that be? and how can it be that in recent memory you were the size of a nectarine, and before then a cluster of barely observable cells? (and before then, stardust?) 

three ~ textures of babyhood; may the lambs remind you it's ok to be soft. this is for you, for keeps, for (someday) a son or daughter your own. 

four ~ your little wooden brushes 

five, six ~ these were taken in the summer...can you feel the glow? you'll know it soon.

seven, eight ~ your first rattle; your first bed, waiting to be set beside my own. 

nine ~ another from the summer, when my body felt, implicitly, the need to nest you long johns and sheepskin, my to-be winter babe. 

ten ~your friends, waiting; the eeyore and pooh were your father's.

eleven ~ tender lil shoes in blush; the dream of you knowing winter candlelight early on. 

twelve ~ these won't fit for so long, but when they do. oh, when they do...i'll take you out for frozen yogurt that day, i've already decided it. 

thirteen, fourteen ~ further glances into your wonderland.

fifteen ~ tender, tender baby blue.

sixteen ~ i began to plan my hospital bag, and bernie thought she ought to be in it...

seventeen ~ a little like a cloud...

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