When I look at him he smiles back. Always, invariably, big two little tooths winking at me, smiling. I see his grin that spreads to his eyes fringed in lashes longer than mine and I snuggle him close and kiss and kiss and kiss all over those fat baby cheeks and I look again.
I can’t stop marveling at him. He is beautiful. He is perfectly and wonderfully made. He is mine for this little while.
And for a time I didn’t know how much I wanted him.
I didn’t know how much I would need to have another baby to hold and cuddle and love and I never once imagined that this baby would be my only son, my calming force in the dramatic tirade of strong-willed girls. I didn’t know how much I would fall in love with this baby whose gestation kept me in hiding crying in the shower crying out to God that I could never do this again.
I’m so blessed to have been trusted with this little life.
So I look at him. I drink him in. He folds his hands in prayer when he’s sleeping. He buries his face in the crook of my arm. He looks at me and smiles and there’s a dimple in his cheek.
Just like mine.
I can’t stop looking. I can’t stop seeing the miracle.