. He is double dimpled and neckless with thighs that beg for kneading. He marked his first tummy time (7 days old) with an immediate roll- over, then did it again, and again. When he started to pull his knees under him threatening mobility, I picked him up – panicked and terrified, shrieking the new rule that he is not allowed on the floor at any time.
Perhaps because we worked so very hard to get him here, or because he is my first boy, or the third child (as was I) but I’ve never been so absolutely enamored by a child before. Having done this before, I find we’re less focused on the physical parenting pieces of a newborn (the obsessed marking, recording, and discussing of how many ounces in – how many ounces out) and instead find myself completely enamored with the spectacular spiraled calic on the top of his head, the blurred view of his pudgy profile when I have my nose nuzzled in the soft second fold of his neck, the way his left dimple forms first – then his right follows, the way I always find him - left fist extended ala superman turning his swaddle to toga, and the way he holds his left foot stiffly flexed and frozen while eating – as if the milk is somehow contingent on the poised position of that perfect fat foot. We love his open mouth – happy spilling from every appendage – smile. We love the way he boroughs, forhead down, knees climbing scooting his firm self from one end of the blanket to the other. We love the breathy, raspy, story-teller’s voice he’s discovering. We often find our time completely void of productivity as we hover on all fours, six inches above his round face, just staring, singing, working on the latest toungue tricks, and soaking in every inch of babe. We love this boy.
