I found this blog post from August 2011 and it resonated with me again all these years later. A moment in early motherhood.
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I carefully picked Emilio up and out of his car seat, gently as possible shifting his body against mine, his head on my shoulder. He lifted his head briefly, I watched in the car window as his eyes fluttered open. I waited, a voyeur of the reflection. He settled back on to my shoulder, warmed his body in to mine and let his eyes close. My hand stayed on his back, the rhythmic tapping I can’t help but do continuing to remind him that he could close his eyes.
I pushed the door closed with my foot, he didn’t budge on the sound of it meeting the car frame and latching. I turned and began a slow walk to the house, my mind planning future moves, and then the wind swirled around us.
I stopped, standing on our stone walk, looking out across our green, but weedy lawn and wondered if it’s strength would wake him. I wanted a comfortable spot right there to curl up with my baby and relish in the strong late summer breeze that felt full of something.
I stood motionless, but for my patting hand, and felt the wind, my son’s head, his body warm and soft against mine.
And then I heard our dog whine at the closed screen door, smelling us, wanting us inside. I walked up to the house and moved inside, the wind dying down.
Later, I would stand at the closet mirror and look at my boy in my arms and wonder in shock, when did he become so big?
