Dear Isaiah,

It’s been seven months that my brain surrendered itself to become a fierce animal of intuition, protection, and memory mush.  Long, long ago, before you were even a thought, my brain was something akin to a needle.  Sharp, incisive, not to be messed with.  And now, with your arrival, it has transformed itself.  I’m still adjusting to that.

The world’s mothers know what I mean when I talk about memory mush.  It’s, what I hope, a temporary condition of forgetfulness and inability to retain information.  It’s similar to a huge, gorgeous mahogany dinner table that has been loaded with every kind of plate, silverware, glass, candelabras, and cup imaginable.  The table is full of wonderful things but each time you try to push one more thing onto the table, somewhere, on the opposite end, a plate that was teetering on the edge, quietly drops to the carpet below.  Noiselessly, I don’t even notice the exchange that occurred.  Another plate of information has been added, but another has dropped off into an unknown abyss.

That’s kinda how my brain is processing information.  And all the new plates are yours.

The information and knowledge that you have shot into my brain has crashed all the other plates to the ground and I, so hopelessly in love with every inch of your existence, barely notice the disaster that is called my memory.  Keys are tossed in the pockets of bags I don’t use.  Voicemail messages are listened to and then forgotten.  Appointments are only remembered because I tell your dad to remind me later on because, surely, it will escape my memory.  Twice this month, I had to crawl under the parked car in the garage to retrieve the spare key to the car.  This latest episode – last Sunday – ended with my holding up the key victoriously in my hand, only to find my regular keys stuffed into your diaper bag.  I got down and dirty for no reason at all.

I’ve heard that parenting is something reactive, particularly in the first stages.  Each day is something new with you.  Your two bottom teeth have cut through.  The first has been showing its top for a few weeks, this second just burst through yesterday (oh, you were such a sad, quiet baby yesterday).  Your laugh is SO LOUD (so Factora of you) and your rolls, once disappearing, are now back to their original chunk size as your appetite has now accepted a few ounces of formula in the afternoon to accompany your usual breastmilk lunches.  Yesterday, you even polished off two, yes TWO boxes of stage 2 Gerber food.  YOU ARE SUCH A GERBER HEAD.  I couldn’t believe it with each passing spoonful.  At any moment, I expected you to turn your head away, signaling your busoog (remember, that’s “full” in Tagalog) belly, but no.  Your Filipino-German-Spanish-Irish-French mouth opened itself wide open for each bite.

In fact, your size is a daily topic.  With strangers and friends alike, everyone seems to comment on your length.  Or guess how old you are.  The other in a department store, a grandpa looking man, glanced over at you and asked if you were  A YEAR AND A HALF.  I smiled and said, “Oh no, just about 7 months.”  He looked at me for a long while, like I was about to add “just kidding” to that bit of information.  He just stared at me.  Then at you.  Then exhaled, “Well, he’s going to be a really big boy.”

Big boy.

As a feminist identified writer, my love, Big boy means you are going to have a big heart.  You are going to grow a heart ten times bigger than your gigantic frame.  Because, my little lovebug, you must understand that it will be the size of your heart, the weight of your compassion, the openness of your mind that will get your through in life.  In other words, you will be just like your father.

My memory muscle is embarrassing, and that is why I write these moments to you.  Not only for your eyes to read someday, but also for my memory.  Everything these days feels like fleeing pieces of paper blowing in the wind and writing it down turns it into a sticky note.  A little bit of glue so it stays in place for a while.  Writing helps me solidify what I want to remember.

This morning, I held you a little longer than normal.  You were getting sleepy and instead of setting you in your crib for your morning nap, I propped myself up on the couch and gently laid you, tummy down, on my chest.  You squirmed and wiggled, probably thinking I was playing a new game with you, but eventually I think you understand it was just me wanting to be close to you, wanting to smell your skin – your scent of dry milk and sweetness – and pressing you gently against me as you laid your head against my breast and stuck your thumb in your mouth, finding your comfort and peace.  We stayed that way for several minutes, before I laid you in your crib and you flashed me your two pearl smile.  It made my heart ache with longing to stop the months from passing so quickly.

And as your rolled to your side, resting your two little legs on top of the bumper and I watched you fade into sleep, I whispered how much I loved you and knew again, as I often find with you, that words will never convey how truly precious each minute of your life is to me.

My memory will always hold you as the greatest miracle of my life.

Happy 7 months, my beautiful son.

Love,

Mom