Of Feeling Forgotten

I try to lie to myself.  I tell myself I am not one of those bloggers who quantifies her life by the rising amount of subscribers or the amount of written responses.  I tell myself it doesn't matter what people think because I'm writing this for myself - my audience is merely a mass accountability partner which motivates me to hold to my agenda of daily documentation of the small things.  I tell myself that.  But I lie.

I realize it's a lie when I do a quick glance at the number of subscribers each day as I log in.  I note, with a tinge of sadness in my mental commentary, the number has remained stagnant for a good number of weeks now. 

I realize it's a lie when I hope all day to receive just one comment on something I have written.  And when my heart does a little jump at seeing that someone has read the words I've typed and cared enough to respond (and not to offend either person or to say I don't appreciate their commentary because I so do, but somehow it means a little more when it comes from someone other than the women who gave birth to either myself or my husband - when it comes from someone to whom my daily ramblings shouldn't matter - but they somehow do).

And I kind of hate that.

I hate that I have yet to rise above needing to hear the responses of others to my personal digest of often insignificant thoughts and events.

Sigh.

And that's not even what I've come here to write.  I came here to talk about Emmett - the little man who is so often ignored in our bustling household only because he has yet to do much bustling of his own.  And I suppose that even this post - which was to be dedicated to the desire to devote as much time to him in this stage of his life as I was able to devote to his lovely older sister - has somehow become a metaphor for his entire life thus far.  Completely overwritten by the selfish needs of someone else.

Oh, I love that little man and I do hope someday he will forgive me for those days when it just doesn't seem that I care.  Because even though he won't remember days like today when we've committed so much time to teaching his sister to use the potty that we've barely noticed him at all, I know this won't be the last time he'll feel forgotten.  And I pray that even on days like today he'll always know that I love him more than my own breath - and more than any readers or any comments.

I love the smell of his hair and the feel of that cockatoo sprig as it brushes my chin when he rests his cheek on my chest.  I love that wonderful smile he is so ready to give whenever I spare just a moment to look his direction - so forgiving, so happy just be seen.  I love the tiny rolls in his chubby little thighs and how wide his eyes get when you talk to him about things he can't understand (which, of course, at this point, is just about everything) and then, after widening those baby blues/browns/grays (we've yet to decide), he breaks out the sweetest giggle.  I love how he coos for hours after his sister has gone to bed - for even now he recognizes this small window of opportunity, when she is resting, as the time to be heard.

I love him with every fiber I possess and wish with all my heart I had all the time to give him that I was able to give his sister.  And I love him because even at three and a half months he seems to understand.