Dear sweet Sam, You are two months old now. I "woke up" for the first time since delivering you this week. I started getting out of the house with more regularity and can sometimes even remember what day it is. Last week I didn't even know what month it was. Apparently it is October.
I beg you every single day to stop growing up so fast. I pleaded with you as I watched my newborn slip away into an infant, and my infant slip away into a baby. A few weeks ago, as I was pleading with you, you contorted your face, made a little noise like you were concentrating really hard - and there it was, your first smile. You flashed me that big giant dimple and your eyes lit up and I cried and said, "Okay, you can smile. But after this, no more growing."
You don't look brand new anymore. You are a 12-pound, bright-eyed little boy who looks so much like your daddy that it's hard to believe I had anything to do with it.
When you were born, your eyelashes were whispers. They were both present and invisible - they were so fair that they seemed to be made of invisible thread. Every time I noticed them laying on your cheeks while you slept, I imagined God stitching you together with some kind of magical, blonde, heavenly thread - just so. You are perfect.
Now they've darkened - your eyelashes that is - and they are the envy of every woman who has ever lived. It's a wonder they don't get all tangled up when you blink.
Last month your baby hair fell out, but it did it in a very orderly fashion; it started at the front and worked it's way back to the crown of your head. I woke up every day to find it inching back; it was like watching the tide go out.
Right now you are in the "grabby hands" stage of life. It is one of my favorite stages. You still don't have much muscle control, but you open and close those hands like a champ. I hold you and you knead my shoulder, I nurse you and you knead my arm, I play with you and you knead my face, I carry you and you knead my back. It's like a million tiny hugs, and I have to remind myself how delicate you are so that I don't squeeze you right back. You will go through another "grabby hands" stage sometime during your teenage years, but that phase is objectionable and I'll be watching you and your lady friends like a hawk.
Speaking of ladies. After the infectious smiling started and you began to play it fast and loose with your dimple I had to sit you down for a talk. Now, you can't help it if girls melt over your giant, quarter-shaped blue eyes and your two-inch eyelashes, BUT haphazardly breaking hearts is poor form. I explained to you the difference between being friendly and flirtatious, and about sending mixed signals. I explained the importance of honesty. And sensitivity, gracious, that's the big one. We talked about being kind and humble and self-aware.
After I finished you gurgled at me and flashed the dimple, so I think you got it.
The back of your head is as flat as a washboard despite my best efforts to keep you upright and on your belly. You're kind of a punk about tummy-time. You sit up all day long, holding your head high, but the minute I put you on your stomach it's like you are magnetized to the floor. You plant your nose right into the carpet and whimper. I know you're faking though, so I'm not concerned. The flat-head thing gives you the appearance of excellent posture, and I affectionately call you "flat-head," like the little dinosaur from The Land Before Time.
Sometimes when you're laying with your head on my shoulder I love you so much that I grit my teeth and curl my toes to keep from bear-hugging you. In those moments, with my heart beating fast and everything all clenched up, I whisper into the back of your neck,
"Can you feel it Sam? Can you feel how much I love you?"
I have to believe you can. I choose to believe that you can feel the love emanating from me, oozing out my pores. Love osmosis.
And I know you love me, too. There is some special, intangible thing between mothers and sons. When I take you from the nursery ladies, or even from your Dad, your whole body relaxes; we melt right into each other and I can feel the love. You are so entirely a momma's boy, which is a good thing provided you learn to form your own opinions, think critically, do your own laundry, and eventually move out of the house.
But we won't have to worry about that because you're going to stop growing. You're going to heed your momma's instructions and stay two months old forever so that you can lay on my shoulder and hiccup, kneading my back and brushing my skin with your crazy lashes, feeling the love osmosis.