I swear to you, I am as tired as I was the night he was born.
But it was worth it. He loved it all. He was sweet and he thanked everyone for everything and he was excited and happy about every gift.
He blew out his candles. He tolerated the Happy Birthday song. He did not cry once.
He is a big boy, well and truly four.
I cried when he left. Not because he was leaving, but because I was just emotional. I feel shredded and worn and exposed to the sparks of this electric life. He and his brother have taken away any last bit of cool insulation I might ever have tried to preserve.
When I kissed him good-bye in the car I told him that I loved him. I told him that I was going to keep his decorations up. He was so proud of his decorations. Everyone who came to the party was given a tour of all the decorations.
"You keep them up forever," he said.
I just might. Or at least, for a very long time.
"I love him too much," I told May in the kitchen a little while ago.
"No you don't," she said. "You love him just right.
Sometimes it all seems like too much. The love I have for him and his brother and for his mother and his aunts and his uncles and his father and my husband. I sometimes feel that the container (my heart) is not large enough to hold it all.
Which, I suppose, is why I cry. It spills over.
Well. I need to go finish cleaning up the kitchen. It is supposed to get down into the sixties tonight.
The windows are wide open.
So is my heart. So is my not-always-big-enough-to-hold-it-all heart. But hearts can grow. Trust me.