Four Years

Four years ago, we walked into Judge Dixie Park’s courtroom for the first time. I don’t know what your papa was thinking, Levi, but I was scared to death. That there would be some document unsigned, some report unfiled, or some other reason that she wouldn’t sign the adoption decree.

She did, of course, and an eight-month weight slid off my shoulders.

From the first time I held you, my heart was yours. I’d meant to hold back. I’d already given my heart away to one boy, and knew exactly how it would break if we lost you, too. But I couldn’t help myself. You nestled down on your papa’s chest, and sighed a big sigh, just as if you’d known all along: We’re your people.

But I never stopped being scared, right up until the judge banged the gavel. You? You aren’t scared of anything, as far as I can tell.

You love being outside, in any kind of weather. You love your family, every bit of it, and with the big boy cousins, it’s possible you have a little hero worship going on.

You are goofy to your core, little boy.

You make me laugh even when I’m furious with you. That happens more than I’d like. Sometimes it’s hard to believe you aren’t flesh of my flesh – we both seem congenitally unable to let anything go. It’s been – and this is not news to you, buddy, I know – a rough week.

Still. Our toughest days are bookended with love. When you crawl into bed and hug me good morning. When I wrap you up tightly and kiss you to sleep. All our shenanigans don’t tarnish that. I love you fiercely, and I will never stop.

You made me a mama, Levi, for keeps. And that is what mamas do.