Tibault & Toad

birthday babe

My Tennyson! Today he turns one, and I suppose I should finally throw away the placenta that's in the deep freezer. I'm writing this post at 6 pm, which means that last year at this time I was less than an hour into holding my new babe. I won't wax poetic (except, of course, for the actual poem I've included - how could I not? consider his namesake. . .), nor will I lament how quickly it goes by or that he's not a baby anymore, because I am truly and only glad: glad that he was born and glad to celebrate a whole year with him and that he's multiplied our family's love to four times. This morning he celebrated his day by enjoying one of our classic banana smoothies for the first time. He's got straw skillz guys. We're not planning a big party or anything, just a little family bbq at our house this weekend so that those nearest and dearest to Tenny can celebrate him with us. (By the way, if he's looking a little Quasimodo to you, it's because Indigo shoved an entire dishtowel down the back of his onesie, which Alan only brought to my attention after I took these pictures.) 

And to commemorate this day of his birth, a poem, of which he can surely be embarassed when he is a teenager :)


A silent seed,

he started late in fall

as everything was furling, 

flaking brown,

all winter long her belly swelling,

arms and thighs and bosom flushing, full,

abating breath,

until the cusp of summer was so close

he couldn’t wait

and quickly with her hum then cry

he was born, 

first under the surface in the warm, dark pool

of water and sweat,

then into the air, unfurling from the caul,

soles and palms

wrinkled poppy petals.

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