Letters to Cannon: The One Where You're Almost to Big to Hold

Dear Cannon, 

Sometimes I look at you and wonder where the days have gone. I will always remember standing by your crib in our room in our apartment on Gaston Avenue ready to put you down for a nap. I would stand and sway, holding your little body with one hand. You fit on my chest. My hand covered your entire back. I'd sing "Godspeed" to you and thinking, "One day you won't fit in my arms like this." And then I'd sing "Godspeed" again just to savor the moment. 

And here we are. You ask me to "rock" you before you go to bed, and I try. But your legs hand down to my knees, your head falls off my shoulder, and my arms can barely hold you by the time I get to the end of "Godspeed." 

Somedays you test me with your "NO!" and other days you melt me with your sweetest "Okay Mommy!" You soak up everything. You repeat every phrase. You note every nuance. And you emulate everything we do. I am overwhelmed at the responsibility of shaping your soul. 

I pray I choose the important things. I hope I cherish these toddler days like I cherished rocking you as a baby before nap time. Because one day you won't fit in my arms. One day you won't hold my hand. One day you won't say, "Ok Mommy."

And I'll miss it. 

I love you my first baby.

Mommy

(I just had to include this random photo from a day you dressed yourself as a cowboy. You played that guitar and galloped all over the backyard in your hat.)