From the tiny flutter in my abdomen to the solid go-for-the-goal kick, the stretch of your tiny limbs under my ribs and the sound of your heartbeat through the stethoscope; I thought I couldn't love you more.
There you were, wrinkled face, yawning, smiling, eyes staring up at me, bundled in your little blanket with your tiny hat and tee shirt, making little sounds and crying on occasion, depending on me for everything; I knew I couldn't love you more.
Your first steps, first words, feeding yourself, sippy cups and potty chairs, dressing yourself, even if it was sometimes backwards, amazing me with every evolution. Later, your first bike, first grade, first girlfriend, and, oh my God, first car, graduation, college, a grown man; still I love you more.
How could a mother have a capacity to love more everyday? How could a mother have enough love to go around for more than one amazing, blessed child? How could a mother's love grow with each year exponentially, without ceasing, no matter what, for all her children? It seems impossible, yet it isn't. It's a blessing we've been given. I should know; I'm a mother.
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