A Year of Remy.

About four years ago, I was at a beach on the coast of Oregon.  As I walked through the damp sand, I had the distinct feeling that I was done seeing and knowing things on my own.  As clear as the seagull's call above me, I knew I wanted to show someone else the world.  I imagined then kneeling in the sand with a child, pointing out the waves, picking up shells, eating peanut butter sandwiches.  In my head, the process seemed one-sided.  Me showing you while you listened and watched.  Remy, I couldn't have imagined your little face, eyes and hands showing me.  I couldn't have imagined that I would be the one watching and listening.  

Two years later, I knew I was pregnant in the middle of July.  I was at the very beginning.  I hadn't told anyone, and no one had told me, but I knew it like a crack of lightning.  We got caught in a hail storm at Fish Lake.  As we were running through the trees and mud on our way back, I looked out over the water and saw a group of white pelicans sitting calmly on a flat, grey rock.  I thought, "this is it, things are about to change."  I marveled the rest of the hike home.  I stayed behind Carl and our friends and let the rain soak me.  All of a sudden, this was my earth, my place that I had to prepare for you, and already colors seemed more vibrant.  I always had the strong feeling that you were so content. 

 When I was 20 weeks pregnant, I had a major surgery to remove a large tumor from under my ribs.  I was so worried for you, that you would be disturbed.  I remember the night after the surgery, a nurse woke me early in the morning to check your heartbeat.  You were moving around so fast, she couldn't catch you to hear it.  I think you knew the world might be hard and big, and I think you loved it with eagerness still.  

A year ago I was awake, listening to your heartbeat on a monitor.  Maybe I can't sleep tonight in celebration of our year together.  I am delighted by you.  There are dreams of mine I didn't think I was up to fulfilling until now.  I remember the morning I showed you a stack of my paintings.  We went through them one by one.  You laughed out loud and pointed.  You pulled the paper in close and examined the colors and lines.  I thought then, "I can make a children's book".  And I did and I am trying to make more.  I don't know that anyone has ever looked at my work in such a way.  

Thank you for being kind to strangers, especially the awkward ones.  Thank you for being funny.  Thank you for rubbing pudding on your head.  Thank you for loving outside and for sitting in pots of water with all your clothes on.  Thank you for being patient with me.  Thank you for having such a round head.  Thank you for loving books.  Thank you for making me want to be better.  Thank you for coming to me one year ago.  Happy Birthday, Remy.  

 

May I ask a favor?  I am a strong believer that people grow into what they are told they are.  I've been writing in a book for Remy, and I would love to include some of your thoughts or advice for him.  Maybe you have a memory of him, a favorite quality, advice?  If you would be so kind as to leave him a little note in a comment, I am going to write it all out in his book for him.  Thank you for your love to us.  Really.