The love of a child

I think it goes without saying, and without exception, that every deep dig, every hard decision, every tear of anger and frustration and confusion is made worth it when you hear,

"Mama, Me wuv you.  You'we such a good mommy.  Me pwoud of you."

When you've never said those words of praise to yourself; when you doubt your tactics, your direction, your very being on days when you're hanging by a thread; when finding a sense of place comes directly from within and nowhere else.

I have avoided saying "I'm proud of you," to Hawk because I feel that's co-opting his own achievement for my own satisfaction.  I might say, "You must be so proud of yourself!" or "That was such a great thing that you did! or simply, "I'm so happy to know you and get to spend time with you!"

So these words he clips out of his mouth with a bit of a lisp are his own -- picked up from the underlying cultural mores found in cartoons, movies and other adults -- and they make me soar because I want nothing more than to make him proud.  To be seen as good and wondrous. And lo and behold, to him, I really and truly am.

I am all at once overwhelmed with humility at the miracle that is him and also satisfied to know he exists, because of course he exists.  Every child is him.  Every mother is me.

Love and wonder flow through my veins and I see magic every single day.  Damn, I'm lucky.