I've been busy organizing my crap today, but in the midst of it all, I stopped to make a quick page. It feels like ages since I've actually made a scrapbook page, so I'm pretty revved up about it. It's nice to return to something you love and discover that it still holds all the old joys.
This page is a short letter to Eliot. I hope that someday he will read it and be able to feel the depth of my love for him and for his father. I've hidden most of the journaling under the flap of the heart, both to symbolize what is in my own heart just now and to hide what is private. I don't know what lies ahead for our little family, but I do know that we will make it past this and we will emerge a stronger family because of it. The arrangement of that family remains to be seen, but I am determined that our son will have both his mother and father as constants in his life, regardless of whether Eli and I remain together as a couple.
I get nostalgic looking at older pictures of Eliot, like the one I used on this page. This is a photo his daycare provider took of him wayy back before we'd cut his curls off, when he was just starting to say "cheese!" every time he spied a camera pointed in his direction. :)
And this is our little man now:
Times passes so slowly and so quickly.
And how much does this boy look like his dadda? He's Eli with my hair. *swoon* It's no wonder I'm still broken-hearted when I have Eli's spitting image running around here, asking me heartbreaking questions like "Why you cryin', Momma?" He's an incredibly perceptive kid.
His new obsession (aside from trains, always trains) is stoplights and stop signs. He yells "Stop, Momma!" anytime we pull up to one. He can also tell (from recognizing landmarks outside the car, I guess?) the difference when we're going to the apartment versus when I'm taking him to the house. He says "Daddy's house" or "Mommy's house" depending on the situation.
I hate this. It is hard. And I am so torn.
It would be easy for me to say okay. It would be easy to move back in, and not ever worry about Eliot crying for Daddy at night.
But in some ways it would also be easy to stay here. To not have to think about her. If I stay here I never have to wonder whether she slept in my bed, sat at my dining room table (the stainless steel table that my mom bought us as a wedding gift, no less). Did she sit on my swing? MY cedar swing, hanging from the tree in the yard? The plank of cedar my dad fashioned for me when I was in the third grade? Did she browse the titles of the books on my shelves, the ones that are still there, patiently waiting for some sort of resolution?
I could cut loose, and leave all of that behind. Start fresh.
But if I do, if I give up on this...someday I'll have to answer to my son. My son with those big shining eyes, those determined brows of his daddy's. And I want to be able to tell him that I did everything possible to keep us all together.
So the question now is: when does the possible become the impossible? When does enough become too much? *sigh*