Wet Summer Nights

I opened my eyes and saw Qube standing over and intently staring at me. At 230 in the morning! Then when he saw that I am awake, said: “Mama, maihi ako!” (Mama, I need to pee!). And just like that, drowsy and still half-dreaming, I had to jump out of bed and dash to the bathroom with Qube amid all the pillows that have already become our nighttime fortress.

It’s been like that for the past few weeks. Whenever I hear the word “maihi (pee)” in the wee hours of the morning, I swear I could literally feel adrenaline surging through my brains and see sirens flashing rapidly in the background as I carry Qube off the bed and into the bathroom.

And success for both of us means being able to outrun his wee-wee. Afterwards, Qube would proudly say: "Wow, dae basa ang briefs!" (Wow, the briefs did not get wet!")

When we go back to the bedroom, he’d go right back to sleep, oblivious to the mini heart attack that I just went through.

Let me make it clear though, these early morning frenzies are great sources of pride for all potty training moms like me. And no, I am not exaggerating when I described how it is like whenever Qube feels the urge to urinate in the middle of our sleep. Oh, and yes, the husband* is usually fast asleep while this is happening.

Things have not always been like this, though. We've also had our share of waking up to a wet mattress and blankets, and being forced to change clothes and replace the bed covers with extra thick ones at three in the morning. And if it is not obvious enough, these instances also equate to having to sleep with dried urine on our bodies. So, you have to understand my panic to reach the bathroom when a chance presents itself to save us from literal wet sleeps. And lately, it's been presenting itself every night. To my relief.

Sometimes  it’s tempting to go back to the comforts of the disposable diapers. But, as pointed out by the husband*, this is a necessary step for Qube to achieve diaper-independence.

I have long readied myself emotionally for these, though we only started to seriously train Qube to use the potty during the Easter break. And forgive me for bragging, but I can proudly say that despite being a working mom and all, I was the one who made him pee inside the bathroom. The first time, the second time, and the third time the same day. While there were lapses during the next few days, that first day success was what convinced him to try the potty again the next day, and the day after, until it has become his daily routine.

These days, whenever Qube says: "Tara, maihi kita!" in the middle of his play, you'll be amused to see all of us (Yaya, me, the husband*) drop whatever we are doing and run to his side to usher him to the bathroom.

To be rewarded with his grin and this statement: "Wow, very good na ako!"

Here's hoping this does not become another failed attempt.

For a lot of things.

Creating a worthwhile blog entry, for one. Because it has been six months since I last published here – either I have been busy or been simply too lazy to think, much more to write. 

The impenetrable web protocols at work is not helping either.

Qube's babyhood has gone by in a breeze without me being able to document each monumental step, literally and figuratively. Save for the occasional twitter and facebook posts, I haven’t been able to write at all.

Even the sort of writing that one just keeps to herself.  Hmmm. Now I am suddenly reminded to put in writing the mental notes that I have been keeping for quite a time now. Though I would have to muster enough courage for that.

Just a few hours ago, I was torn between panic and amusement because I (again) noticed posts in my twitter feeds which I did not make because I was then in the office, working my ass off, oblivious to the rest of the world. Well… not entirely true, but still. The point is, somebody else was posting on my behalf – of high scores in slam dunk, song quiz and fruit ninja. And if you think a one year, nine month old baby can't do that? Think again. 

Sometimes Most times, I am convinced that my child is a genius. How else could I explain him being able to recognize numbers zero through nine, regardless of what he is doing when you ask him? Or his ability to distinguish colors and make it sound like the most normal thing that a baby should know? Or, just a few minutes ago, the way he was searching for the "clear page" icon on his drawpad, and successfully finding it on the first try, the second, and all other succeeding tries, moments after he saw me pressing it to erase his scribbles to make space for new ones? 

Well, truth is, all mothers feel the same pride for their children. On my part, this pride is coupled with the prospect of us getting famous through him, and probably earning millions when, being the "superbaby" that he is, he'd discover something big that would revolutionize life as we know it. Hehe.

If the above does not prove successful, yours truly would seriously consider being a stagemom, given the "ahem" really good looks that he has. 

WARNING: Do not, for one moment, mistake this as conceit on my part. I am merely playing with possibilities. And a chance to earn BIG.

Like the possibility of him becoming a basketball superstar at nine-years old (that would be less than eight years from now). In our plans, the husband and I have even gone as far as planning to bribe his grade school coach so that he'd get drafted in his school's varsity basketball team. Justifying it as a necessary move so he won't be disillusioned so early, just in case.

If that, too, fails? There’s football.

Anyways, what's so special about this stage is that I could look at him building his LEGOs and think that he’ll probably design the next skyscraper wonder of the world, with his name etched on top of it (and probably have a lady CEO named Pepper). Or see him obsessing over his small stable of cars and conclude that he’ll become the first Filipino F1 car racing champion. Or see him playing Punch Hero on the iPad and decide that, well, he’ll probably get over it in a few days.

All these dreams I could see in him without (yet) being pressured to fulfill any one of it. Let’s see where it takes us in a few years.

But tonight, what’s real is the sleeping baby on my lap who clings on whenever I make an attempt to put him down on the bed, refusing to let go even to just let Mama pee.

There was no way to compromise, so now we're living SEPARATE LIVES.

 
My Medela sits forlorn on top of our dinner table.

And there's a part of me that feels guilty each morning when I leave without my not-so-little black bag that has become my closest companion since I resumed work after my two-month maternity leave.

Before this week, the longest goodbye that I could endure between me and my Medela Swing is four hours. Beyond this length of time is inconceivable. Long separations from it are literally painful and heavy to the chest.

So, you see, this relationship is really very intimate and is incomparable to anything I have had or am still having with anyone. You can even say that I have been too clingy and dependent in this case. And this has been going on for more than nine months, which is also longer than most past relationships that I've had.

Most importantly, this is the only relationship that did not disappoint me. All that was promised, it delivered. It gave and did not take anything in return. (Well, except for my initial investment which is, of course, necessary in every relationship.) It secured for me unrivaled benefits that not even the father of my son could provide.

But numerous demands at work leave me no time to nurture this relationship. That is why I have to give this up.

But no, this is not total non-commitment - because, as in all relationships, getting over does not happen overnight. And, in my case, I relapse much too often.

So, every night, when I arrive home from work - after kissing my Qube and asking how his day was - I lock myself up in our bedroom to have a little private time with my Medela.

And emerge right back with two 5-ounce bottles full of breast milk.To be stored for Qube's consumption the following morning.


Footnote: Despite having given up my pump-at-work routine, I am still night nursing Qube, and hope to do so in the months to come.

You got me stranded (in your smile).

Reposted from my facebook notes. Dated May 22, 2011

Just this morning, you flashed me your beautiful toothless grin and there, I decided I want to spend another hour in bed with you – all the while knowing that by doing so, I’d have to cramp taking a bath, getting dressed, kissing you and your Papa goodbye into the 10-minute window I have left before heading to work, then returning from the door to give you another round of kisses.

And just this morning, while walking down the flight of stairs from 501, I thought of how much you’ve grown from the 4-pound little boy that we brought home from the hospital last December 24. You can now sit by yourself in your wheels (that is how your papa and I refer to your stroller) – a milestone that I proudly shared to my fellow moms at work – my Qube is becoming independent na.

I remembered how small and fragile you were when we brought you home. And you were yellow – as in jaundiced yellow.

Sunbathing to remove the yellow.

Qube at 8 days.

But being the little fighter that you are, you got over the jaundice, grown at the pace that your pedia has had a hard time believing, and turned into quite a looker. In fact, as early as now, girls already swoon over you. Of course, I am on top of the list. The English-speaking-pretty-five-or- something-little girl in BHS who came from nowhere and started kissing you the last time we were there,  the strangers who stop us in malls and at the airport to greet you and to ask if you are of foreign blood and not to be outdone are your Lolas and Titas who are understandably biased towards you.

There are many other small things about you that I should have written from day one. But I got so engrossed witnessing and marveling at your day to day growth that I couldn’t get myself to leave you, to write. Besides, we take photos of you every day… and if there’s any truth to the saying that a picture paints a thousand words, there would be several volumes of books about you by now.

But you see, I realized that it’s not enough. So while you are asleep beside me, I decided to start writing. And there will be separate stories about your first smile, your first turn, your refusal to do “close-open” until now and your papa’s insistence that it’s still too early to push you to “close-open” your hands, your first real laugh, your excitement when you want me to get/hold you, and many many others.

Happy fifth month Qube.

a lazy friday is the perfect ending to a busy, busy week.

I have been told that the effect of my epidural extends beyond childbirth, so before it eats away my memory, here's my Friday list: Qube's toys, teethers, food, the firsts that i have not yet written about in my previous blog posts. 

Welcome home gift from the hospital - from Kuya Jigz, first toy ever! Qube's activity with Spongebob mainly consist of biting both hands and feet, and all protruding parts that he could get his teeth on.

  

First Happy Christmas gift from Tita Monita. He uses these pails as baskets to shoot his mini basketballs.

 

First stuffed best friend: Panda Q., from Papa's last Macau trip.

After a while, his interests shifted to this ugly Leopard fiend from Animaland: 

And eventually, with his legion:

First food tasted (from Auntie Glen, with some  pamahiin to go with why it should be the first food taste)

First food feeder. Because I could not bear seeing him look at us longingly every meal time, I bought this from Munchkins. We just put fruit pieces inside, then have him chew away to get the juice. This helped me worry less about choking.  

This worked for about 2 weeks, but after that he wanted to directly eat his fruits.

 . 

First teether. Thought of buying this because Qube developed the habit of biting everything within biting distance.

Bought also but he hated these:

So when the fish died (probably by overuse), i bought these:

And his first real food, but it did not take long for him to realize that he hates the taste.

So, we tried this and he loved it:

and he loved these other variants as well:

Now, he eats everything: Real rice, real squash, carrots, potatoes, papaya, chili leaves, chicken tinola, pork sinigang, fita, skyflakes, everything that his father approves.

And he plays with everything: Isoprophyl Alcohol, my office ID, TV remote control, everybody's mobile phones, his face and hand wipes, diapers, his hand sanitizer, and all others that he could get his hands into.

And a few years from now, when Qube starts asking, I'll give him a link to this blog. 

Eighth Highlights.

Technically, it's still during the eighth month.

Went home last Friday with a not-so-good mood and a giant headache. I was greeted by a smiling Qube doing "The Close-Open".

Was i happy? I was ecstatic and the giant headache suddenly vanished!

Before the eighth month ends, let me count the ways that Qube made me smile on this particular month:  

1. Close - Open: When we had just about given up on him learning to do it.

Starting on his 3nd month, we had been trying to teach him this, but he always seemed oblivious to my and his dad's efforts.

But last Friday, when I arrived and Yaya asked him to show me – he closed his fist tightly, then opened it to show his palm, then he did it two more times. There was no mistaking it; he was really doing The Close – Open!

The catch? He refuses to do it more than twice a day. Or twice to the same person. Stubborn little imp. 

2. Dance, dance: Nobody taught him. Well, I am not sure if Yaya did, but since both I and his dad never learned how to dance properly, we simply did not include it in our agenda to teach Qube. Maybe his daily dose of Showtime is to blame.

We just noticed one night that each time the Dell Fabric Conditioner commercial comes up on TV, he would suddenly turn and stare intently at the TV. Then he would begin swaying his head and move his body in tune with the jingle. That is when we recognized that he was dancing. Several more of  “May one rinse na ang Dell, may one rince na ang Dell…” sang by yours truly, confirmed our theory that he was indeed dancing to the TV jingle.

Now, his repertoire includes: Gotta Feeling by the Black Eyed Peas, Pokerface by Lady Gaga, On the Floor by J. Lo, The Time (Dirty Bit) by Black Eyed Peas, The Sweet Escape by Gwen Stefani and Akon, and a selection of nursery rhymes and bedtime songs.

Oh, and yes, he dances when he likes his food.

3. Clap them softly, 1, 2, 3: The first few times he did it should not counted. Because they were so random and not connected with any particular emotion.

This time, he claps when he is happy, when he sees something on TV that delights him, when he sees Mama about to pick him up, when he is playing with Leopard (his Animaland stuffed bestfriend), when he is playing peek-a-boo with Papa, when he dances.

4. Alive, Awake, Alert, Enthusiastic: Whenever I arrive home from work, I always try to sneak to the bathroom, have a drink of water, change my clothes, before I show myself to Qube. Else, he would be jumping with outstretched arms and shouting “Mama”, and I would not be able to disengage myself from him until a few hours later.

And every day after work, at playtime, he’d start to babble animatedly, hold his breath, tense his body, and squeal. He always does this when he is excited or when he is very eager to talk. And always, I’d have to rub him on his back to make him relax and just try to talk slowly.

5. Crawling little pig everywhere: By now, I’m getting used to turning towards my back first before making any move, to be sure that I would not be stepping on a crawling Qube, because he now makes his presence known in every nook of our apartment.

At eight months, we could no longer just sit and watch TV peacefully. It would always be either me or Papa chasing Qube everywhere.

One of these days, I might just tie him on a leash. Promise.

6. Bedtime singing: I’ve already mentioned in another blog entry that whenever I sing him to sleep, he’s start to slap my face and take over my singing. He does it every night.

Last night, because I want to tease him and test his singing prowess, I started singing in a falsetto. And he did the same!

But because I do not want to make false claims when I boast this to friends, and especially when I write about it, I modified my singing to use my normal voice. And he hummed in his normal voice. Still, not contented because it might have been just a coincidence, I again sang in falsetto voice. And yes, my Qube also began humming in falsetto.

Well, picture me smiling smugly to the husband*. The baby took after me, afterall.

There are many more little things that Qube does to make us proud parents believe that he is the best eight-month old there is today. But of course, all proud parents think this too.

This ends our amazing – eight journey.

Welcome to nine months, Qube.

Bukol Survival Tips

Qube got his first bump in the head last night while playing with Papa. With how both father and son reacted, i cannot be sure who between them was more hurt.

Qube hardly cries whenever he tumbles to the floor, hit whatever part of his body with his toys, with the door, chairs, or even when he accidentally head butts me. But last night, he was fighting the urge, but let out a sniffle anyway. And it took several more minutes before he recovered to his usual self.

His usual self can be described by flashing back to 30 minutes before his minor accident:

I was singing “Are you lonesome tonight?” - this is his bedtime song - while feeding and trying to put Qube to sleep, when he pulled himself away from me, stood up, and sort of took over my singing (yes, he does that! I’ll probably have to cam cord it as proof.), prompting his Papa and kuya Jigz (who is on school break and came here for a visit) to come inside the bedroom and witness his little show.

Realizing that he had more than his usual audience, the singing turned to dancing and tumbling around while being held and restrained by his dad.

Then it happened.

Maybe I should still be thankful that Papa’s teeth didn’t fall as a result. Though he swears that it is really painful, which I totally believe because Qube once hit me with his head and my upper lip ruptured.

For similar future events, which I am told is inevitable, here’s my to do list:  

·         Stay calm. And tell the dad not to panic (because he has the tendency to overreact). I can tell from very limited experience that Qube’s reactions (crying, shock, etc.) are especially influenced by the expression of everyone else around him (e.g., the flower on his hair, the Ildefonso incident). 

·         Kiss, kiss. Both the bukol on Qube’s head or any other part which might have been hurt. When I was a child, a kiss from my mom always takes away 80% of the pain. I intend to pass on the tradition to my own kids. 

·         Ice, ice, baby. This one is no myth. And I am copy/pasting my internet research as support: Applying an ice pack will decrease the eventual size of the bump. Apply the ice for 20 minutes and then take a 5-minute break, then 20 minutes again. Offer your child a treat to eat during the icing to console him. 

Although for Qube, I did not need to offer anything else. The feel of the cold on his skin was enough to amaze him and stop him from squirming free of my embrace.    

·         Check for cuts, blood. Though if there is any, it would be hardly negligible. I was told though that cuts on the face, scalp area bleed much more than other areas of the body.  If there is bleeding, apply pressure to the cut using a clean washcloth with ice. The wash cloth, well, washes away the blood while the ice prevents the blood vessels from swelling. Basta, do it daw.  

·         Calpol. Whenever Qube has his monthly vaccine, his pedia always asks us to give him Calpol or Tempra every 4 hours to relieve the pain. Internet research suggests that this works as well for cuts, bruises, bumps and similar minor injuries.

But since the “kiss to the injured part” worked already, I saw no need to administer Calpol, though I’ve made it a point to have one handy, for emergency use which I am glad never happens.  

·         Go out for a stroll. To help erase the memory, the dad strongly advises taking Qube out for a walk. (Just like how the husband* goes out for a walk and a yosi whenever he is finding it hard to put up with yours truly) 

True enough, after the walk and play outside, Qube was again jumping and kicking and screaming in delight, as if nothing happened just a few minutes earlier.

When I locked us inside the bedroom for another attempt to put him to sleep, Qube was humming with me to the tune of “Are you lonesome tonight?” while his mouth latched on my left breast to feed. And his left hand was alternating between pulling my other breast and slapping my chest in rhythm with our goodnight song.

TGIF and Friday thank yous.

Believe me, if most part of your nights are spent breast feeding an insatiable baby, and your work days monitoring the time for your next pump session and the number of ounces you express everyday, you'll be as obsessed as i am to discuss this topic.

Scenario 1:
I was telling the husband* (asterisk stands for "almost") yesterday that the child of my pumpmate at our company clinic yesterday is almost 2 years of age.

Husband* said: "So, you are seeing yourself 16 months from now".


The initial goal was two months (baby steps)... which then became six months and, before yesterday, was fixed at nine months.


Now the goal is not to live forever, but to pump forever?

Scenario 2:
Also yesterday, while snacking on Country Style's chocolate doughnuts, i casually mentioned to the husband* that i have not been taking Natalac for several months now.

Husband* said: "Wow. Means you're really becoming an expert at it. You are Supermom!"
Me: "No. I am Supercow!"

Now i know why i used to love this game:



But no, i am not complaining. If anything, i am very happy to have someone who totally supports me, who encourages and pushes me on when i am losing faith in my capacity to produce enough milk for Qube.

And of course, no small part is played by The Best Nanny in the World who, in her own way, continues to support my breast feeding profession:

• who has learned fast that Qube's main source of nourishment should be breast milk. And that he is to be fed infant formula only, and only, when there is no more frozen pumped milk;
• who, by now, knows that my temper shoots up whenever there is excess unconsumed breast milk in the sink;
• who, despite the lure of the easy mixture of water and powdered formula, coupled with a crying and impatient baby, chooses to patiently thaw chilled milk everyday;    
• who persistently packs an extra pumping bottle for me everyday, even when in the past two weeks, i was not able produce enough to fill those bottles. But maybe because of the pressure of seeing an extra empty bottle, i am now able to produce a few more ounces, to get rid of the empty-bottle malady.

 So, given this overwhelming support, i guess i am really off to Supermom-hood. I just hope my Medela can cope with the pressure.

Homesick is.

• when you left the house at 7am and realized that 12 hours has passed and you're still stuck in the office. The fact that this only happens every once in a while still does not make it less tiring;
• when you catch yourself intentionally not touching your computer keyboards so that the screensaver would flash a smiling Qube, which in turn would result to a smiling you;
• when you begin blogging instead of finishing a report for a 730am meeting the next day.
• when you can't wait to go home, because the husband* has been texting, asking what time you will be home since four hours ago, and more importantly because you don't want to miss every dinner that he prepares;
• when your breasts literally ache because it knows that by this time Qube should be breast feeding already;
• when you hit publish, thus posting an incoherent blog entry, and subsequently shutting the laptop down because you had to get home fast, nevermind the traffic that you we're supposed to avoid.

Bite me.

"Don't bite the hand that feeds you" has lately become my regular saying whenever i am with Qube.

A joke that he does not yet get, but one that i keep on repeating nonetheless because i love how his Dad reacts and shakes his head, as if wondering how in ef's world did his Qube end up with a crazy mom who talks in idioms. And i love how Qube looks up to smile at me after i say those words, as if confirming his Dad's thoughts.

But really, i am not talking figuratively whenever i say that to Qube because, at 7 months, Qube literally bites everything, my hands included. Put him down on the bed and he’ll surely attack Panda’s and Leopard’s noses, Turtle’s head, Spongebob’s arms and feet, blankets, pillowcases, mobile phones, everything. Give him his frozen teethers and he’ll chew on them nonstop, a stranger would think we are not feeding him enough (if not for his very plump arms and legs).

Last week, his first front tooth appeared and just the other day, i noticed two of them already. Given this recent development, i might now revise my saying into: “Don’t bite the breasts that feed you”, which i am sure will make Qube’s dad cringe even more, especially because i am posting this for the public to read.

And yes, i am talking about breastfeeding and my now emerging fear of  being Qube’s human teether.  But biting or no biting, i still hope to continue breastfeeding Qube long after his next sets of teeth appear.

Here are pics of Qube at seven months (totally unrelated to this teething entry):

 

Dear Qube

You weren’t the Qube I imagined. First of all, for seven months in my tummy, you weren’t Qube. I used to call you Azira, your would-be name had you been a girl. But since it took us forever to think of a perfect name for you, you were Azira for the longest time, even when we already knew that you would be a boy. Your pre-birth documents and pictures all have Azira in their file names too (which reminds me that I have to change all of them.)

It seems to me that your goal in life at this point is to surprise us every day and bend our plans your way.

You were born a month early and, while I had in my purse a print-out list of all that we should bring with us to the hospital when my and your due date comes, your dad and I ended up bringing shopping bags of unwashed newborn baby clothes and towels to the hospital (thank God, we advanced some of the items in our baby shopping list!). All because you probably decided that you already want to spend Christmas with us, which was really sweet, but my Dear Qube, you almost gave your dad and me a heart attack – your dad, especially, because it is not a secret to everyone that he hates hospitals but he did not have a choice then because it was just him and me at our house when I felt you were about to come out. This, ladies and gentlemen, is surprise number one.

The second surprise was when you finally came out after my 10-hour long labor. Although I have fairly managed not to expect too much in terms of size, I was still not prepared when I was told that you were four pounds and 11 ounces. My immediate thought was that it was a mistake. I remembered asking the nurse how to convert ounces into pounds and how many more ounces is needed before you reach five pounds.

Silently, I blamed myself for not drinking Anmum, for having an occasional soda and coffee, for sometimes missing my pre-natal vitamins, and for simply not being healthy enough to provide you with the nutrients (and genes!) that could have made you bigger, heavier, taller. What will become of your dad’s dream of letting you join the PBA? Subconsciously, this might have become my biggest motivation to breastfeed you, even when I had no milk the first few days after your birth.

When we were about to leave the hospital, your in-patient pedia told us that she thinks you are turning yellow which could mean that a) I get to leave the hospital but leave you behind for photo sessions (I was told this is not the photo op that vain people do); b) I could decide to stay and wait for you to recover but this would mean additional costs for me, of course; and c) we both get to go home and spend our very first Christmas together. And because this is a happy story, we were able to go home together and we spent our first Christmas eating take-out food from Jollibee and Ineng’s (because all the other nearby restaurants are closed for the holidays). The end.

But the surprises kept on coming.

There is the realization that you had just taken away one more month of freedom from me when you were born early, but that it’s okay because had you stuck to the plan, your Papa would not have been there to witness your birth, your first cry, your first smile because he had an out-of-town work assignment during your supposed birth week.

There is the realization that when I decided to breastfeed you, I had also given up small pleasures like shopping and going to the movies (for two months), drinking tequila, soda, coffee, and eating unhealthy food (for as long as I am breastfeeding) because I don’t want any of these in your system.

And this one is quite painful for me: I also had to give up the dream of having straight long beautiful hair (after nine agonizing bad-hair months), because I was told that I can’t get my hair rebonded just yet – and what’s the point, anyway, when I just have to tie it all the time because the strands coming in contact with your skin might cause you allergies.

There is the realization that I can no longer sleep all day during weekends because there’s you sleeping between your Papa and me: waiting to be fed, to be held, to be told stories that I am not even sure you already comprehend, to play with, to spend the entire weekend with.

In return, you grace us with your smiles, with your squeals of delight whenever we make funny faces and sounds while playing with you; you stop my story-telling with your own speech comprised of ohhs, ahhs, kiii, and other monosyllabic sounds that I and your papa pretend to understand to encourage you to talk further, and just lately, you amaze us with your ability to sit by yourself, to jump up and down nonstop when held in a standing position.

I know that this is just the beginning. Your surprises will keep on coming and I will be here to witness you becoming the Qube who is way way better than anything I had imagined.

Panic Attack #768

Somewhere between my eager anticipation and happiness, there is fear. And it is becoming more real everyday:

I fear that your birth will bring about a 360 degree-turn in my life;

I fear that once i look at your beautiful face, i’ll never be able to look at anybody else the same way again;

I fear that once i get to hold you, it will break my heart to put you back down;

I fear that i’ll never want to leave your side once i get used to being with you;

I fear that i’ll love you a thousand times more than i love your dad (and i don't mind at all that he'll love you a thousand times more too)

I fear that your smile could ruin every ounce of objectivity in me;

I fear that when you wrap your little fingers into mine, my whole world gets wrapped in it too.

and in about 60 days, i fear that you will define for me what life is really about. :)