People, FOH turned one — ONE — on Tuesday.

I have, to my complete surprise — been extremely emotional over this.

First. My baby, my little teensy, 7.11 pound baby, is no longer a baby baby anymore. By all the books standards, I’m dealing with a full fledged toddler now.

Okay. Allow us not to use that word at the moment. I need to ease into this.

Second. WHERE IN THE HELL has the last year — YEAR — gone? Someone, quick! Please make sense of this for me.

Third. My baby, excuse me — my no longer baby baby, is growing up. Slowly. But surely. The days are passing. The months continue.

This growth will not stop. Ever. The knowledge of this leaves me breathless as I wonder, who will my son be? And how damn exciting it is to bear witness to life — from the absolute very beginning — all the way through each and every stage.

I think The BF is taking my emotion as a sign that I want another baby. And I don’t know what it is about babies turning one, but it seems to be the magic number when everyone starts to ask the, so are you going to have another one, question.

I think of that and I get pretty damn unemotional pretty damn fast.

I am not ready for another child. I won’t be. I know that I wasn’t ready for FOH, either. But I know my limits. I feel like I’m just now, a year into this Motherhood Thing, getting it.

I’m just now finding and hitting my stride. We are in a rhythm. A good place. I’m not looking to shake shit up.

I’m at capacity.

I admire those women who are capable of having multiple children. They just somehow have that much of themselves to give.

I’m not one of them.

I feel like I barely have enough to give to FOH. On my best days, I am still a walking fog of hazy exhaustion.

Maybe he knows this about me and is part of the reason he’s so gosh darn happy and easy and all around charming — he knows that suffuses his mama with such energy, such joy.

It’s what keeps me going.