Dear Osiah.

Osi

Osi, 

You came to me, a gift.  I knew you when all I could see of you was the roundness of my belly - the stretch, the pull. 

I knew you then. 

And I know you now when I see you run, when your smile smirks and you tell me you love me.  I know you when you throw balls and when you eat peanut butter with a knife from the jar and when you sleep mid-day, head cradled softly in the crook of my left arm. 

You are still my gift, sweetheart.  God, are you a gift. 

And yet something's missing.  I'm looking around for it constantly, scattered and searching, but my eyes are too used to the scene and so I miss it.

It's become clear that you were sent to me as a teacher.  You, my boy who's still my baby, the one I can still carry around with relative ease, and yet yearn to put down all day long.

What am I missing, sweetheart?  We're constantly pushing and pulling, a simmering battle of wills that's broken, yes, by days of easy smiles and belly-hurting laughs.  

But more often than not, it's the simmer. 

This can not continue, honey.  It can't.  You deserve better than trying-my-best.  I'm not trying my best if nothing's changing, if you're not clearly feeling my deepest, most swelling love all the way down into the tiny creases between your toes. 

Your sister revealed herself to me in very different ways.  Your ways still feel new, every day they feel new, and every day I keep thinking I'm going to see what I've been missing. 

Please keep showing me.  I promise that I'm going to keep looking. 

I'm wanting to promise you so many other things, but I can't find the right words, so I'll just say this: 

You are everything I need you to be.  Everything.

And I have the words to promise that I will be everything you need me to be, too. 

I love you so much, baby,
Mama

Emily Ballard1 Comment