This and this and this too

I write because I have to, I write because I've forgotten how, I write because it used to define me, I write because somewhere buried deep beneath it all may be a writer still. I do have a love affair with words and the way they can fit together so intricately like the pieces of a puzzle, so seamlessly the reader is unaware that there are words at all.

My son loves words as well; he loves when he figures out the riddle of a word that has several meanings or a word that sounds the same but is not the same word. He loves for us to read to him. Before he could even crawl, he and I used to lie on our backs with a book held above our faces and I would read to him and it entertained him for hours.

Does nature or nurture define a child? Does our son's musical ear come from my husband's genes or just my husband's love of music? Does his need of words come from my ever present book in hand or from his own curiosity? I think it is a little of both.

I think children are born who they are, but I also think so much of them is shaped by their nutrition in and out of the womb, their exposure to life, their parents' interests...Mort is by nature a genuinely happy person. It is who he is. He came out into the world not crying, but looking around and stretching and yawning. He latched on like he had been doing it his entire life. He wakes up with a smile on his face. He shrugs things off. He doesn't care about coloring inside the lines. He tells me not to worry. He tells me things will be okay. He is a little smiling ball of zen. Maybe it was all the secret brews of fresh herbs my doula had me drinking throughout my pregnancy. Maybe it was all the pregnancy and baby yoga. Maybe it was because he was wanted so desperately. Maybe it is because he had been to Heaven and back. Maybe it is because he is Mort.