I Didn't Forget

How could I possibly forget?

I talk to you more in person now, so writing to you seemed less important, but I think that was a mistake. Sometimes I need your calm and content presence in my heart to remind me of what I have. You remind me so much of all the wonderful things that I have and of all the wonderful things that could be that we aren't even aware of.

Squib is having some medical issues. I imagine your response to that would be, "So, and?" And we would commiserate and laugh. Who in our family doesn't, right? Or your secondary response, "But we still have music!" Do you know what I wish for the most? Believe it or not it's on par with being able to visit with you in my house. I wish we could just talk. I know from your frustration that you wish that, too, sometimes. It's a funny juxtaposition. Would I give up seeing you if I knew you would be totally healed? Or would I turn it down because I'm your mom and you're my son and I need and love to see you? To be honest...I'd turn it down. At least at the moment. We are who we are and you're abilities make you...you.

Still, I wish I could ask you how to make this better for Squib. Or what you remember. Maybe even that you and he could talk about it and share your gruesome tales of Texas Children's just to get it out of your system. His fear of shots and needles. Your fear of anyone or anything in scrubs.

But most of all, I want to say--to both of you boys--how very much I've not only come to love you but also found that I need you, too. As babies you were such foreign things. Cute little cuddly guys to wash, change, feed, burp, take to the ER every Thursday whether we needed to or not, LOL. Now, as your personalities have grown and you have become the young men that you are, I find that I don't just love you. I need you, too. Just as you need me.

I need you to steal my chair when I get up during the movie to use the restroom. I need you to glare at me when I dare desecrate a viewing of Andrea Bocelli's Sacred Arias (for Pete's sake). I need you to call me a turkey. I need you to randomly scream "race!" when we're walking so that I have to run to catch up. I need you to bolt for the parking lot as though you are invincible to large, moving machinery. I need you to snitch every bite of anything I try to put in my mouth because you turned it down before, but it's apparently better if I'm trying to eat it. I need you to quietly and innocently say, "try moooore" when you're on my back piggy-style while I do the hula and jump on one leg as though I have infinite strength and endurance.

And oh, man. Try more.

What I couldn't do if that was my mantra and encouragement as well.
Momma