But now, still, you're my little boy. The other day, you came down with a cold and I let you fall asleep next to me on the couch - you in your dinosaur pajama top and your chubby two-year-old feet tucked under my legs. I am still your resting place. You are still my wild.
Working full time, I ask myself if I'm missing too much. If I've missed too much. If you'll grow up to be a man who wishes he'd had more of his mother's ear, or equates hours spent with amount loved. I hope not. I think not. Instead, you should know well how much you are thought of on commuter trains, in conference rooms, in a home office.
You and your sister - you should know this.
your mama
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