The other night, as I was tucking Quinn into bed, I overheard him whispering to his favorite stuffed animal, Bunny.
"Mom, I was telling Bunny how much I love you."
"I love you a million thousand hundred times," he said. Sometimes it's "to Pluto and back" or "to the Milky Way and back" or "to all of the planets in all of the galaxies." We have a theme.
"I love you that much, too," I replied, my throat catching. Some nights, his sweetness just floors me. Especially when I've got another scan around the corner and he is seeming to grow up more with each passing day. Can I freeze time? Keep that one tender moment locked in the safe space of my heart forever? Keep all of them there?
Quinn Tornado from Jennifer Campisano on Vimeo.
When I was diagnosed, I wasn't entirely sure I'd get to be here right now. In fact, I had a dream shortly after -- sometime in the fall of 2011 -- of a toddler Quinn holding someone's hand at a funeral I was pretty sure was my own. The statistics said I had a one in five chance of living to see Quinn turn five, let alone see him start kindergarten. Only twenty percent of women in my situation would make it to the five year mark.
This week, Chris and I have toured three different elementary schools trying to decide where to send Quinn for kindergarten next year. For another time: when did choosing a kindergarten get so complicated?
But kindergarten. My boy.
And me. Maybe just maybe going to get the chance to buy him a new backpack next summer, go school supply shopping with him, see all that he has to show us as he learns even more clearly how to express himself.
It could happen.