We've made it through nine years from this:
to this:
*I see you, chubby baby you
Sleeping in your baby bed
All rosy cheeks and chunky thighs
And sweet, milky breath
Suddenly you laugh,
long and loud,
cracking up at something in your dream that
only you can know.
I see you, the whole bundle of two-year old you
Standing on a folding chair at the round kitchen table
Buttering bread with your brother.
You throw back your head, tiny blonde mop of hair
and laugh your rich fruity laugh,
face all smiley mouth and slits for eyes.
“Is that funny?” you ask
Yes, you are assured, that is funny
Suddenly solemn, you proclaim:
“It’s not funny to me!”
I turn around and you are three,
Picking up a purring kitty
“He’s jumbling, isn’t her!”
Said with a grin and mixed pronouns
which I loved, and so hated to correct.
Four. My unsure baby, trapped between
the world of being a Big Girl and
the desire to keep crawling in between
two warm bodies at night.
Wondering, worriedly, Will I still want to sleep by you,
when I’m a teenager?
And stating emphatically
I will never move away from home!
I will live with you forever!
I see you at five,
Stressed, straining, chest-constricting five
Struggling to sound out those awful words
C-A-T, B-O-B, S-U-N
Fun in the sun
Black eyes pooled with tears
Salty little streams of frustration run down your cheeks
I can’t stand that you won’t sail a
smooth course through all of life,
that some things won’t come easily.
You will struggle and strain and fall
and get hurt and cry many more tears.
I see you, fair and flawless, in the summer sun
Six years old, cradling a grasshopper with a broken wing
and five legs where six should be
cooing and crooning “Poor you. Poor you. Poor little thing.”
into its grasshopper ears
on its legs.
Pure, benevolent, heart-of-gold you
The cruelty of childhood that strikes so many
has bypassed you completely.
I see you at seven
Silly, spin-y, flail-y you, dancing on the kitchen tile
An endless stream of chatter pouring from you
The dishwasher repairman, from his position on the floor
Says: She’s never met a stranger, has she.
No, I say, she’s never met a stranger.
At eight you are in your daddy’s arm
swaying slowly around the living room
lights from the Christmas tree mirrored
in your huge clear eyes
“You, soft and only
You, lost and lonely
You, just like heaven”
your voices sing together
and I love you all over again.
* I had to write a poem in my Creative Writing class last semester. Actually, I had to write lots of poems but this one just happens to be about Libby and is therefore appropriate to share on her birthday (and the ONLY time I will ever share my crappy "poetry").
I promise not to make a habit of this, but OMGHAVEYOUEVERSEENANYTHINGSOCUTE?
“The time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time.” Bertrand Russell
Not exactly sure of the relevance to Valentine's Day*, but Happy Valentine's Day anyway!
* Actually, I think this photo embodies an Anti-Valentine.
