I know I’ve been lazy in the Lance department and I’m fine with that, as well.
I’ve been figuring out this mommy thing. Letting it run over me like warm water. Letting it settle into my bones like old age. Letting it hit my synapses like a drug. Letting it happen to me. Letting it be so special that even I, a writer, can’t put it into words. Not yet.
It’s bigger than me. Bigger than Joe. So enormous and so significant that I can’t pin a fancy word on it. You understand I’m sure.
I’m in the thick of it; staring at my kid, his perfect fingers, his big pink feet. They look like his father’s feet. They look like my feet.
His toes curl when he’s angry. His eyes widen when Joe plays the guitar and his brow furrows when he’s cold.
I still can’t believe I made this.
That we made this.