I love my son so much I sometimes wish I could just hold moments still–when he’s smiling at me, when I’m holding him, when he’s laughing at his sisters–to make sure I remember them so well I’ll never miss them.
At nine months old, he lights up and says “Da Da” when he sees David walk into a room. He calls “Ma Ma” from his crib, usually when he wants something. It’s still sweet.
If you say “kiss,” he leans his head forward to receive (maybe give, if he’s aiming for the air above my shoulder?) one.
He laughs with a gasping guffaw when he sees one of us, and crawl-races over to be picked up.
He smells like honey and warmth.
He’s learned to stick his tongue out, which is way cuter now than it will be when he’s eight.
He squeals with delight from his car seat as soon as he sees Saoirse climb into the minivan after school.
He is adorable, and happy, and is an absolute delight, the life in his little body burning like the sun shining over his head during the day.
Until one o’clock in the morning, when his voice is the bray of a thousand goats being forced to tap dance in wooden shoes.
It turns out that the walls of a 48-year-old split level can offer excellent acoustics.
Just ask the neighbors.
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