The plum trees are blooming -- better get out the Kleenex.

No it's not allergies. It's my gestational memory.

Four years ago this week, I held this little bundle of goodness for the first time and experienced the greatest transformation of my life. I went from a swollen, wobbly and miserably uncomfortable weeble of a woman to this:


A sleep-deprived kangaroo.

And you know what? It's worked for me.

The years are flying by, just as promised by the millions of moms and dads who warned me of the rapid passage of time. I live the adage of preschool moms everywhere "The days are long, but the years go fast."

If I close my eyes I am still in that hospital bed holding my babe, watching Mr. Wonderful sleep during March Madness basketball, looking out the window at the brown hills turning pink from the plum trees of spring. It feels like just yesterday that I held this sweet little potato nugget on my chest for hours and hours on end, watching as the plum petals in our back yard burst open one by one into all their pink and purple glory. Never wanting to move from that moment with my newborn nestled in the crook of my arm, asleep in the milk coma that was his world.

And on his first birthday, I watched in wonder as he drooled and crawled and pulled his way up to the window to watch those same trees bloom the lyrics to "Happy Birthday". And on his second birthday, when again I was big in the belly, we watched the trees bloom in a new house with his new friends and he wore yellow boots and a red shirt and stomped in the puddles as the pedals swirled around us. And last year, he kicked it with Shamu as the trees opened up and he ate a hot dog under an umbrella in the San Diego sunshine.

And this year, I walked with my dad to pick up the birthday boy from preschool and take him to the park so that he could run and jump in the freezing rain with all of his friends. And as we left the yellow streamers and charcoal bbq behind in the rain, we walked past another spring tree bursting in blossom. And I told my dad that they always remind me of the week Max was born, and that I think it's so sweet that Max's description of a baby being born is that they "bloom out of their mommy's belly."

Because bloom is just what this little guy does.





Every year on his birthday. And all the other days in between.