I should hope the signs of their presence will linger long after they have left their mother love for the love of someone/something/someplace else.

I wonder who else will love her as wholly as I do. Her perfectly imperfect self. Her beautiful little soul.

A poem by Gillian Kessler.

And when the motion finally slows—just enough for him to recollect my presence, and reach out to me—is it only my imagination, or is the boy I lift in my arms clinging to me a little less tightly than the one I put in moments ago?

Beauty is the softness of and stretchmarks on your tummy where your little miracles grew.

The suggestion that my son has “social issues” comes from the mouth of a first grade teacher.