Complete.

Tonight, after you were in bed, the house was exactly quiet. I picked up your dinner plate dotted with stems of enjoyed broccoli. (I never clear it for you anymore. You are my linger-eater.)

I lined your cars up on the end table by the lamp where you like to keep them. They will be waiting for you in the morning.

I picked up your shoes and your collection of old cell phones lined up on the chair. I picked up books and parked Big Red.

I had just wished you sweet dreams, and I was already missing you.

I thought of all the times I lost my patience with you today and yesterday. I will lose it again, I'm sure. But what I wanted to tell you is that you are so perfect for me. And we are best friends, (which is exactly why I should always give you my best.) I wake up with you tugging at my hand, and I go to sleep praying for you.

Oh, how my heart is full of love for you. The kind of perfect love I like to think is heavenly. It feels like heaven. And I know you are heaven sent. And meant for me.

If I think about the miracle that went into making you, I cannot believe how perfect and precise Heavenly Father's plan is. For us. For you.

For me.

I told your dad that feeling like you are exactly where you are supposed to be, doing what you're supposed to be doing, is a feeling that only comes as a gift from God. No one else can give it to you.

When I'm quiet, and when I really listen, I feel that. I think it's because of you.

I think it's because I labor over you, for you, doing things for you that only mothers do. And it's not always easy. In fact, most of the time, it's really really hard. And sometimes, most of the time, you don't listen. And you make big messes. Sometimes you even smell really bad. And I'm tired. And aging.

And tired. (You age me.)

But I'm also loved. And needed.

And complete.

Two years ago, you came to us and made us feel complete. The kind of lasting completeness that I have yet to see dwindle or dim.

I think it just keeps growing.

It all just keeps growing.