I’ve always felt things deeply.

But I’ve never felt pride as readily, and as intensely, as I do for my son, Beau, our first, born one year ago. 

Even the little things—and they’re almost all little—make me emotional, affected, beyond affected.

It’s beyond feeling warm in the chest and face. It’s beyond tears. It’s hearing This Magic Moment playing in my brain while my son plays in his pen. It’s hearing Lou Reed sing “Everything I Want, I Have…” so loudly I fear there’s too much sound for the room to hold—much less my head—like the walls will splinter and the ceiling will buckle if I stay and watch him do something typical for one more second, just one more second.

So I kiss him and give him to mom and I go upstairs and I write. And when I do, the words come out in a straight line. And the act feels good, very good, better than usual. And The Reader, I’ve found, can tell, yeh.

I write better when I’m emotional.

Happy birthday, Beau ❤️

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