Oh Max, my baby. My little man. I look at you and smile. And tear up. And chuckle. And feel all sorts of awe for the blessing you are to me.
Today I rocked Max before settling him into bed, all 35 pounds of him. He is long. His legs extend beyond the arm of the chair, and they’re almost chubby as the day he was born. We do not fit in the rocker, and yet, every day we do. His little body curls around me and he stares into my eyes and whispers “one more milk” – his phrase for “pop the top on this mama fountain”. I always wanted a nursling who could communicate with me about milk. And here he is. On the brink of two, just 13 more days, and the most perfect little boy I could have ever dreamed of.
Oh yes, he pulls his sister’s hair and pesters me beyond belief with his constant (and I do mean CONSTANT) need to be by my side – but it’s just him. It’s Max. My Max. It’s his billion emotions that sway from gritted teeth anger to uncontrollable laughter to pretend superheroes moves to bouncing – everywhere. He’s mine and I shall keep him no matter how big and boisterous he grows. And I’ll rock him for as many days as he’ll allow me to – soaking up every moment, breathing his sweat and holding this little baby of mine close, oh so close, to my heart.