You were born during the fall and today, while a cold drizzle falls
outside, you lie here at my breast snoring tiny eight week old snores.

There surley can't be a more delicious or peacful moment for mother and
child. Yet it somehow seems odd that this hour together should make me feel
so sad. Perhaps it is a wave of baby blues coming on, more likely it is the
relization that you can't always be so tiny that you can snuggle here
between my chin and my legs.

I think these moments can't last. I know that in the days and years to
come, you and I will gradually become less close. You can't always be
protected from the drizzle outside.

this feeling of temporary closeness. Somehow I wish you could know me, your
mother, as an individual before I become that beloved and sometimes dreaded
person, your mother. I also wish I could know you before you become that
precious and sometimes wearisome thing, my son.

Since I really can't introduce us and explain to you who I am, maybe I can
put down a few impressions and promises about how I'll deal with this
awesome joy of pareting.

And though there's a tiny football in your crib these days, I'll always
want you to be whatever you choose to be. You should know, Michael, that
I'll love you more than you'll ever know.

I find that giving you impressions of what I am like only leads to promises
I can make but perhaps cant keep. You'll probably always feel me more than
know me. I'll be the one whose hands and smells and heartbeats you'll come
to associate with care and comfort and, too soon with frustation and resentment.

Michael, I hope you can come to know me as someone who tried to give you as
much security and love and strenght as she possibley could give.

Eventually though you'll want to leave my breast and go out in the snow.
Maybe you'll make a snowman. Maybe we'll be friends.

I love you,

Momma