Excess

Dear Meishka,

Today my heart is just melting over you and the smiles, hugs, and kisses we've exchanged haven't soaked up all the emotion running through me, so it's spilling over into words now that you're asleep.

Dada and I got some big news this weekend, and while that news is incredible and exciting, I've had only one thing running through my head all day: I am so lucky to get to be with you, to get to be your mama. It was all I could think about as we exchanged bites of bananas this morning, splashed in the pool together this afternoon, and walked around the house in circles this evening--you with a trademark bag filled with carefully stowed race car, toothbrush, and low-hanging fridge magnet slung over your neck.

You'll soon learn in church that we believe in what we Mormons commonly call a "preexistence." It's a funny word for a concept that is without pre- or post-: the eternity of the soul. Without beginning or end--the idea used to be a fun one to momentarily send my mind reeling toward a circle-shaped abstraction. What I think of now instead is a personable space, filled with people I know and love. And I like to think that you and I--ageless, eternal souls that we are--were good friends. I imagine us strolling in beautiful places, sharing stimulating conversation, laughter, encouragement . . . And I imagine us sorting out what our relationships would or could be on Earth. I like to think that you offered to me as a priceless gift your magical babyhood in return for a sacred promise that I would care for you completely when you were most vulnerable. Can that equation ever be settled? Can any amount of protection and maintenance ever amount to the joy you inspire?

Which brings me back to Earth and a more practical line of questioning. Sometimes I want so badly for you to consciously understand--like I'm sure you used to understand--how much I love you. How can I communicate such a thing? I know that the kisses and hugs are really for me. You're more wooed by me letting you dig in my makeup bag or taking you "ou" in the stroller in my PJs because you so want to go on a walk first thing in the morning. You're safe, well fed, clothed, stimulated, and cuddled. These things mean love to you, though you would only know them in their absence. And that's the way it's supposed to be.

Even so, every now and then, when you glance up at me and smile for no reason while nursing or when we lock eyes for a half-second longer than distractions usually allow for during playtime, I remember the agelessness of your soul. And I can feel my own soul reaching toward yours, my friend. And I rejoice in the compound possibilities of a love without temporal bounds, a love that defies linear equations.

Thank you for trusting me with your magic, Meishka.

Love,

Mama