Good morning

Good morning son.

Today you are one.

Sometimes I am full of regrets when I look at your sweet face.
With your smile that seems to extend to the very tips of your hair.
With your four teeth boldly poking out.

I wish that I could remember being pregnant with you, that I could look back fondly on that time. Reading to you, singing to you, rubbing my belly with anticipation and hope. But I didn't. I look back to that time and try to remember how I felt when you were kicking around inside. But all I can come up with is a deep, black blank and a feeling of disbelief. I fear you were ignored. Surrounded by sugar and anxiety.

I wish that your birth had been different. That I hadn't been so frightened.
But it was only the start. A bit of screaming at the start never hurt anyone.

I think that the first word I ever said to you was, "hello."
I don't know. I can't remember. It has slipped away like your uncompleted baby book.
Because I couldn't start yours until I had finished your sister's.
And hers still sits there. With only one page filled out.
And yours is a blank.

At times I wish I had written more about you here. Your other sister's bizarre baby book disguised as a blog. If you ever find this place when you are older, will you count the words that are yours and feel slighted? But I don't have to love you in halting prose, full of insecurities and potential hurts.

I will never forget how happy I was to see you.
Your sweet face. Which is just as sweet now.
Although I did not yet know about the smile that would extend to the very tips of your hair.
Or how boldly your teeth would poke out.

And if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
I could wish that I had enjoyed this first year more. I could wish for so many, many things.
Two big sisters instead of only one.
A better mother.
Riches.
A crown.
A pony.
Chocolate buttons that wouldn't give you rotten teeth.
Anything and everything.
I could wish that the world noted my wishes.

Now is not the time for wishes and regrets.
Some things are better left alone.
Now is the time for smiles and teeth and boldness and hair.
Hair that seems to smile.
Four bold teeth.

Good morning son.

Today you are one.

I love you.

Twenty years from now, maybe we'll both sit down and have a few beers.

I do hope so. Because I can't quite give up wishing altogether. Where would I be?