I used to day dream about moments with a man, anything from picnics, vacations, happy hours, lazy Sundays, etc. etc, that’s since changed.

For the past year, I like to daydream about you.

I don’t think about the hard times, like when you refuse to sleep and instead choose to cry your lungs out. I imagine moments when you’re usually older than that, at some sort of semi-independent yet incredibly annoying age where you can communicate your thoughts and feelings yet still be able to throw a tantrum to send my nervous system into complete distress.

I picture buying you ice cream and us having a long drawn-out conversation on why “blue” is or is not a legitimate flavor. Your argument will be flawless, resulting in a very generous scoop. You’ll offer me a taste, which I will take, because you were so kind enough to share. I will applaud you for sharing with me in that moment and all future instances, although I will eventually refuse—because “blue” is not a flavor.

I envision you sharing chicken nuggets with Taks, in a way that is mutually beneficial for the both of you, but in reality it’s more of a 60/40 win ratio in his favor. “I finished my food, mommy” as I see Taks obediently sitting and chewing at your side.

I dream of singing, dancing, and laughing with you on weekends we’re not obligated to a single thing. I want to cultivate your creativity, because, TBH your mom is the perfect person for that. I just hate messes, but we will figure it out. I apologize in advance if I pass down my parent’s obsessively compulsive requirement for neatness, it is beyond a doubt a hereditary trait.

I hope you’re smart and witty, and I secretly hope that you are so sharp that you leave me speechless. I deserve ALL THE SMOKE. ALL OF IT. I will be ready for you.

I’m doing the best I can to get you here.

It’s taking longer than I thought and it’s a lot more difficult that I expected, but I’ll keep trying.