Gabriel is my world, now. Everything I do is for his benefit - I even see my own self-care as being important for his well-being. Nothing matters to me as much as he does. There are times that I crawl into bed next to him and I can't help but cuddle him and kiss his warm forehead. I love him so much.
My boy is healthy. He is thriving and growing and engaged. Aside from the pesky 9-month sleep regression we're elbow-deep into, there's nothing wrong with him. The gratitude I feel for his health cuts me to my core. I look at my checking balance, my thoughts cloud with worry, and then I hear my baby boy howl and I remember that he's healthy...I have enough.
I was working late the other night and followed the rabbit down a sad hole that has been trying to eat my foot lately. I read one family's story of trisomy 18. I watched the 99 Balloons video again. I thought of the infant son of a girl who went to my school two decades ago. A former classmate whose two children face seemingly insurmountable health crises regularly. Autism. Seizures. Oxygen tubes. These are things friends of mine live with, friends who don't know if their children will be able to live "normal" lives or even see their next (or even their first) birthday.
I can't outfit Gabriel's room with a wall-mounted, child-safe mirror or put him in the sweet Swedish moccasins I'd love for his jellybean toes as the weather gets chilly. I won't be getting the cookware I could really use any time soon and I'm afraid of heeding my 12-year-old vehicle's warning to check the engine. My paychecks are smaller than the average Costco trip total and I'm wearing clothes I had in college instead of buying new things.
BUT. I can expect to celebrate my son's first birthday with him, and many birthdays after that. Really, that's all I need.
I have everything. I am so grateful.