I took this photo yesterday, and it made me scrap the post I already had written for today, my baby’s third birthday.
He’s growing up.
It’s funny, I remember most of the details of his birth very clearly. I remember the hustle and bustle of the OR. I remember how cold it was, how bright it was, how sterile. Until he let out his first cry.
You know how you have an idea of what you child is going to look like? I remember my first look at Pookah. All I could think was: there you are.
Then, like now, he was perfect. In every way. I got my first taste of obsession with him when in spite of my c section, numb legs, and dizziness I stood up in the middle of the night to get to him when he let out a tiny cry.
That moment showed me what it would be like. I would walk through the fire for this one. My precious. My precious Pookah.
Last night, I was hugging him goodnight and said, tomorrow you’ll be a big boy. My big 3 year old boy.
He stopped, looked me in the eye and in all seriousness said: No mommy, I’m your Pookah baby. Can I still be your Pookah baby?
I hugged him tight, inhaling that special scent that is his.
Of course you can. You will always be my baby. No matter how old you are.
Happy Birthday Pookah.
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