I blinked, and you’re nearly three months.
It’s been longer though. I’ve cradled and held you for nearly a year. In that time, I’ve determined that I like you very much, love you even more.
You gave me a scare when you cried and fussed so much for several weeks. I thought I couldn’t handle your little heart. And before, on that April night of your birth, you pushed me the edge of myself, pushed me beyond my capacity. But that’s what it is to be a parent – to shatter the ceiling on one’s capacity for strength, for sanity, for love. Parenthood is expansion.
You went through a phase where you whimpered before you cried. Your lower lip would slowly emerge and surround your upper lip. They shivered in sadness. Your pout broke my heart.
After weeks of screams and stubbornness, you became serene. You’re solid and steadfast. You smile just at the sight of me, at the sight of your brother, at the sight of your father. You’re sociable and sweet.
You have kind, kind, joy-filled eyes. I think you tell good stories when you coo. I think you’ll heal souls with stories.
Your eyes dance with joy, but you talk with your eyebrows. They’re rounded and high when you’re excited. Your feet kick and your mouth makes an “O”. But when Bronson is jumping up and down and screeching on the couch next to you, you furrow your brow and bob your unsteady head, so you can look at him. You scrunch your forehead, and then look back at me, bobblehead style, and your eyebrows say, “My brother is crazy.”
I can’t wait for the fun you’ll have together. You’ll both be crazy. You’ll know by my eyebrows.
Life looks good on you.
Fat rolls do, too.