Breathing

Today is my son’s birthday.

I did not remember it was my son’s birthday until well after he had scarfed cheerios and soaked his shirt in milk this morning, and I was running back and forth between the paper towel rack, his high chair, the coat closet, the backpack folders, pushing the older kids' out the door, tossing booster seats in the car, etc, etc, etc...

Realizing I hadn’t kept up, that I forgot my youngest child, only son’s, BIRTHDAY…

Made me feel very tired.

So tired that I haven’t got much to say right now, which, really, I think is okay.

I think it’s okay that I stop running today and play with my baby.

It’s his birthday.

You are the trip I did not take;
You are the pearls I cannot buy;
You are my blue Italian lake;
You are my piece of foreign sky.
(Anne Campbell, “To My Child,” quoted in Charles L. Wallis, ed., The Treasure Chest [1965], 54)