Bryce _ 3

 Sept 28, 2021

Dear Bryce, 

A boy of routine – your order of games lined up like your trucks, 

Trucks that get dumped daily – you always ask me 

to make them talk, little stories,

while they navigate the rug. 

A covid toddler, over half your life in a pandemic, 

You cling to the point of crazy, 

although in moments when I remember, I stop to take in

the blonde head resting on my shoulder. 

A pink velvet gymnastic suit and yellow rain boots, 

Spiderman pajamas and hand me down shirts,

A sous-chef, a ketchup connoisseur, as you tell Daddy 

“I do dis all the time.”

You still love cement mixers, the color yellow, 

Playing in the garage with tools, taking apart your tricycle 

with your favorite flathead. 

You love Mor Mor and Pop Pop visits,

and at the little farmhouse with Granny, 

as you follow Pops around 

like the happiest shadow.

I didn’t realize kids would sit on the couch and read 100 books

until you were my one who loves to.  

Melting down is no stranger, 

And sharing is still suspect,

And “I do it myself” remains a snail speed. 

Puddles and baby beside you,

John, Gracie, Sophia, 

Ro, Quinn, Kassi, the co-op kids and parents,

Ms. Dana and your buddies at school,

Already, you know your people.  

Lyric-lover of In the Heights, and Vivo man, 

All the questions about Darth Vader and his mask,

Dance parties across the living room 

And shape lessons at night 

with your sisters, who wrap you into their games 

in any way you’ll let them,

Traditions between the 3 of you.

Expert monster truck driver,

Namer of all trucks, 

Comforter for teary friends, 

Glue to Wallie, who will never need a blanket

Or toy or snuggle, when you are there. 

Always “why,” always “let me tell you a question,” 

Turning my head to you, until I answer. 

A cc of your dad, even your feet

Even the way you fall asleep on the couch

or love to curl inward, to the one beside

for love and warmth and the reminder that we’re there. 

I know you’re going to grow up faster 

than any of us realize, 

And so when your hand cups my cheek 

to calm down or fall asleep 

I try to memorize how small you are. 

This year, 

Your first play-in-it snow and first camping and first day of school 

-and since you are our last, our bookend -

The firsts feel a little sweeter,

Watching you grow into you. 

Three, your fingers can do it.

The cupcakes and birthday are here.

You started out, as a skinny newborn

Forehead wrinkles and wizard hands.

A miracle on the black and white screen,

turning flips in my belly,

A miracle held against our chests, 

passed around to arms waiting to hold,

And baby boy, you are still a miracle

running in a field beneath a big sky, 

A laugh full of life. 

The sounds fills my heart

to the brim. 

I love you, 

Mom