the nine year change

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you were born during a flood. that’s how you’ve always described it, and that’s what is true. we are far from your birthplace now but it lives inside us both. and we know it. last week you told me “i’m still a texan.” last week you told me “i’m your number one fan, mom. because you made me.”

you were born and it changed the way i saw the world. i was given life, and life again. and for that… for you…  i am grateful. i am blessed because you made me a momma.

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sometimes i am at a loss for words. when all that is needed is i love you. sometimes stories come from thin air, like i told you this morning when you were fretting over having to write yet another personal narrative at school. you don’t share your stories so freely, and because of this i’ve learned that sometimes sitting with silence is just as well. today you are nine and you are growing into a beautiful being. a boy of light and dark, joy and sadness, reality and dreams. a child of loud and soft, explosion and retreat, confusion and clarity. an introvert… an aquarius after my own heart with inventions and ideas that leave me smiling.

i love you for all of you. i always have and i always will.

you’ve turned eight years old here. and seven. and six. and five. and four. and on and on. each year i am brought back to that night we first met, the events that bond us together like glue. i’ve written about our birth from every single angle and it’s brought me peace, and over the years it has shifted from my story to yours.

i’m humbled by your strength and growth.

happy birthday river. welcome to your ninth year. it’s going to be amazing.

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