One year

I just closed the door on Sam's first year.

It doesn't happen every night, but sometimes, as I pull his bedroom door closed, I feel compelled to linger. I stand there, forehead pressed against white paint, left hand gripping the brass doorknob, and ask the universe to keep him safe, tonight and forever.

It's a private vigil. Dave and I almost always put Sam to bed together, but at the end of our routine, Dave switches off the light and slips into the hallway, leaving Sam and me alone in the bluish glow of his nightlight. I whisper a verse of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, tell him he's my little prince, and lower him into his crib while making a variety of promises about when I'll return.

Moments earlier, as Dave and I said our goodnights to this marvelous little being, I realized that precisely one year ago, I was sweating my way through forty-five minutes of pushing, ripping myself to shreds in places I couldn't feel, struggling like hell to get him out of me. We've come a very long way.

I've been holding my breath. I release it all: my breath, my worry, and the doorknob, and trundle off to bed.

It's been a very good year.