Seventh Month With You

These tiny savory details of your days and doings. Your feats and accomplishments, your heartbreakingly beautiful failures. I want to put words to them, as most mothers do, knowing though, that said words are maybe, just slightly, embarrassing. You are likely not as amazing and precocious and beautiful as I believe you to be. The way you bob to music is probably perfectly normal and not an indication that you are a musical prodigy with a happy-go-lucky spirit, because I well know that if every baby who pleased his mother to no end with his dancing had grown to be a rock star, there would be no one to teach our children arithmetic, no one to rebuild transmissions or diagnosis our illnesses.  But these facts mean little when I watch you throw your substantial weight around in time to the beat.

I suppose you might just be average. I suppose that what I determine to be signs of early verbal development might just be the cooing of a seven month old. And the way you pull yourself up on furniture and crawl with steadfast determination most likely does not mean you will be more athletic or able than all the other babies born late last winter.

But my mother's heart does not accept what my mother's head tries to suggest in the gentlest, most subtle of ways. My mother's heart loves you mightily but fears that maybe it wouldn't if you weren't so special. But how would I ever know? All my babies have been extraordinary, just like everyone else's.

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