Dear little boy.

You came down with a nasty cough this weekend, right as your dad was leaving town for work. It caught up to you on Sunday night, which I spent sleepless - your sweaty self wrapped tightly around my arm, your forehead touching mine. It's true that working parenthood is hard and exhausting and lonely sometimes, too. I haven't thought of this so much as I've thought of how hard it will be when you no longer need the assurance of my closeness at 2am, on the eve of the first day of spring.

I've seen you put more words together in the last few weeks - "Mama, look!" and "Mama back please" (translation: "rub my back, mom"; he's definitely mine). I've seen your budding bravery, tempered with cautiousness, tempered with a desire to figure out the details. I've seen empathy, a hunger for relationship. Already, I'm so, so proud of you.

This. This is generally what I'm thinking of at 2am, on sleepless nights.


More snow.

Stella wasn't what we expected her to be - less snow, more ice and rain. She gave Hugo a snow day, so we had him home with us on Tuesday while we were working. Gus spent the day barking at snowdrifts, Hugo spent it watching from the window and laughing at Gus.

And the following day, all slush in Manhattan. Sure is pretty, though.


Play date at Hakkasan.

We passed around babies and filled up on dim sum. Bowed heads over a father's blessing for his small son, just one month old. Talked of how far we've come as friends and how, one day, we hope to see our baby boys enjoy each other's company.

One of my favorite thoughts on friendship is from C.S. Lewis, and goes something like this: "Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: 'What! You, too? I thought I was the only one.'"

This is one of the truest gifts I know.


Rock climbing.

A surprise party for a soon-to-be sister-in-law. A little boy learning how to do somersaults. Being comically bad at something, but choosing to do it, anyway. 

A Saturday evening in the company of family - always a good decision. 


Tuesday morning.

I woke to light rain and a run in the park - clearing my head as much as stretching my legs. Central Park in the rain is another world, and one I fell in love with long ago.


From the city.

From my weekly trip to the city. From 16 hour workdays. That morning glow between buildings as the sun is waking, that easy fade in the afternoon from office windows. Wishing there were more hours, minutes to spend washing my hair or rocking my son or closing my eyes.

If there are things remembered when we are no longer on this earth, I like to think of the ways I will see this imbalance as good fortune - the push and pull of being alive.


Our weekend.

Pizza around the fire pit, under the stars. Moana before bed - after bath, after fire engine pajamas clad chubby (still) baby feet. A trip to the children's museum. A stop at the store for new soaps, Easter clothes. Chili bubbling on the stove after church. A much-needed haircut and books by the armful. Runs around the green. An evening with friends and their babies - all boys, all carrying dinosaurs, cars, wooden blocks and musical instruments.

What are February weekends for, if not for this?