His legs are getting longer. New clothes fit, time to box up the not-so-old ones. When did that happen?
His hair is unruly. Straight with a preference for straight. Sometimes with a little added straight. Where did he get it? Me, I'm sure. Like everything else.
His hands slap against the floor as he giggles and moves so quickly. Slow down, little one.
He is ticklish, just about everywhere if you catch him at the right time. His squeals are delicious.
Speaking of delicious... his toes are edible. And his thighs. And the palms of his hands.
I'll kiss those hands even though they're covered in dirt and juice and germs. I don't care. A thousand times over, I don't care.
Time will move so quickly, they told me. From the first moment, they were right. Where did my wrinkled baby go? The one who had such an appetite but couldn't eat? When did those dark days filled with bili-lights end? Where did the feet that filled those tiny socks disappear to? Replaced now by toddler feet, anxious to explore the world?
The world awaits. And yet, I hold him just a little bit tighter. And a little bit longer. Until he insists on going after it.
He's growing up and I'm not ready. I ache.
No one told me about the ache.