My heart isn’t big enough.
Not for the crashing train that hits me when you smile.
Not for the iceberg that chills me when you take a spill.
Not for the number of towels I need handy for your fantastic teething-open-mouth kisses on my cheeks, and nose, and forehead.
Not for the monster sitting on me when I wake from a nightmare where I’ve lost you.
Not for the huge scratch-and-sniff sticker that is your signature beautiful smell.
Not for the hands that seem so much bigger when they clutch at me when you’re nervous.
Not for the mountain of ache that I can’t find my way off of when you’re hurting and all I can do is hold you.
Not for the enormous flag of pride I fly when you learn how to stack blocks, clap, or say “I did it!”
Not for the jagged splinters of doubt when I worry that I won’t know how to explain loss, rejection, and fear to you.
Not for the monumental minutes that seem like hours when you’re too excited to go to sleep and climb on the headboard instead.
Not for the cavernous space around us when you are still and molded into my arms.
Not for the hard drive space I’ll need to store every memory and echo of your life as you grow.
Not for the roar of my base animal self that erupts when I protect you from harm.
Not for the boundless joy, which by definition could never be contained, that your life has brought to mine.
Not for the gusting wind that blows time by me so swiftly that it steals my breath and memories of you from me.
Not for the glass-half-full of tears shed sometimes in frustration or pain, but mostly in moments of awe and splendor.
Not for this list which could go on.
Darling child, this heart of mine is not big enough at any given moment, until you take it and transform it for me into exactly the size it needs to be.
I love you.