welcome, oh welcome la-lo-la. you came into this world as poetry and it seems that he was singing of you “the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down to the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth” but you are no nymphet, but a beautiful star to whom we sing our vigils and send pixie dust prayers. welcome, oh welcome la-lo-la to wednesdays, to grassy knolls, to cupcake picnics and seaside dances. 
the poetry of seven
How To Do Two
They say this thing happen when you have a second child. That somehow, magically, you love them just as much as the first. But that really isn’t my worry. I know I will, love S, more than anything. Just as I love W, more than anything. And that W, who talks to S daily, sings S songs, says things like “Mama don’t slip because S will fall out,” gives you belly kisses, and even, last night, tried to brush S’s teeth by running his toothbrush across my stomach, will love S more than anything too. What I worry about is the paper trail. About the moms on the block who brag about the three dozen albums they have of the first child and the six photos they have of the second. And I know that won’t happen either, because not only am I addicted to paper art, but I need the mess of glue sticks and photo corners to make sense of my world. What worries me, though, is how to organize. Because really, this should be S’s book, and it is, in a way, but it is also ours. Hers, mine and West’s, (with an occasional picture of Dad thrown in because we love him) because this is how we get by. Together. And she’ll have books and things that are exclusively hers, but to exclude anything, to try to unjoin it and separate it into volumes and well sorted envelopes and shelves just isn’t how it’s done. Not by us anyhow. So welcome to the book. To our book. To our learning: how to do two.
wednesday
So for reasons other than my aching back, complete insomnia, and general crabby weepiness, I desperately want S to be born today. Because, well, it’s Wednesday. And that’s all.
