Back in November, I posted my favorite annual blog, one of two occasions I hope never to miss – Thanksgiving, and the anniversary of my brother’s untimely death. I wrote of my goal to get back into consistent writing, my second true love and the one that has endured, brought me pain and joy, and helped to pay the ever mounting bills that adulthood and self awareness dictate due.

It’s almost May, but it’s never too late to try again.

Tonight, I’m sitting on my porch, listening to my neighbor’s cranky mower, the robins caterwauling over the last of the day’s worms, and Babyman and Sister warbling over the monitor. All business-building, marriage-growing, and baby-birthing aside, I feel I did a decent job documenting Sister’s entre into this staggeringly beautiful world. Babyman’s, not so much. 

  
He is a miracle, of course, as all babies are. Nearly two, he is as blue eyed and blonde as he is opinionated. Beets, baths, and bodacious John Deer tractors are the bread and butter of his days. He is as sturdy as they come, and yet needs me in a way that Sister never has, and he grasps my hand wherever we go and I feel his tiny pulse tickle my ring finger and give thanks, almost always, for the plethora of platelets coursing through his bloodstream. Sometimes when he is wailing face down on the hardwood over some entirely insignificant slight, this thanksgiving is admittedly hard to come by. Despite all my assumptions to the contrary, I have not turned out to be the mother my mother is, and I lack wells of endless patience, even as I hold him in my heart and not my arms as the tantrum continues. 

  
  
So I am sorry, Babyman, for the lack of documentation of your babyhood, for you are nearly a little boy these days.

  
And I am sorry, Sister, for not capturing your transition from the only child to the incredibly independent, generally kind big sister that you are.

  
But know that little was transcribed because we have been so delightfully busy teaching you to hike and ski and bike, while carting Brother around on our hips, and it has been a delightful 22 months of minutiae.

   
   The days are long but the years are short, indeed.