One month ago today, my black rose, your demeanor changed very abruptly in the midst of our discussion. You placed a hand to your swollen tummy with a look of concern I was only somewhat familiar with in the previous nine months- only somewhat.

Then, no matter how prepared I thought I was for the inevitable, you said five simple words that made my heart stop.

"Happy... very late Valentine's Day..."

Now, here we are- the three of us. Or is it still the two? Two and a half? It's so confusing to me. I know I overthink it all. He's you. He's me. He's someone entirely new, made of all our best bits and some new strange things I can't begin to understand. His tiny little green eyes, they look to me with a clarity that confounds me. How beautiful he is, how wise. To have a mind so pure, unfettered by all the "don't" of this world. He's never been made to feel all the horrors and indignities, the cruelties which we have. He's never had to learn all the ugliness of this world.

He is everything best in us, beloved- and somehow, you chose to share him with me.

Can you ever know what this new life, our new life, means to me?

For you,  Sanita_Squirrel and for our little Edgar on his first one-month birthday. *wipes at her misty eyes and sniffles*

Don't make fun of me. Do you have any idea how weird it is to not only think but also to realize that you're thinking "This is our son! This is our little boy! He's Zero! He's ... Zero? Our son is Zero years old...? What the... I'm not saying that. That's mean. When can I start counting his birthdays without sounding like one of those obsessive freak-o parents? Oh shit... I am one of those obsessive freak-o parents, aren't I? Aw fuck..."

Love yourselves and love someone else you wonderful blessed bastards. Ave Lucifer.