The smell of it

I am writing this with one hand while I hold my sleeping son with the other.  We seem to have a thing going where we spend the hours of 11 pm until 2 am together.  No matter what, once that cuckoo cuckoos eleven times in the evening, Desmond is wide awake.  Mostly he is in a good mood, but sometimes he can be a little ornery.  Anyway Mommy needs to sleep, since she will have feedings at 2 and 5, so I need to get him as far away from our bedroom as possible.

I continue to be amazed by him.  I knew I would be.  I did not know that I would to this extent.  I literally study my boy and notice so many new things about him.  How the tops of his ears curl around the edge of his head; how perfectly round his head is; how much he reminds me of my father; how he did not get his toes from either me or his mother; how the dimples in his cheeks change location daily; how the sound of his breathing syncs perfectly with the beating of my heart.

I'm hooked.

A few days ago I went to do some grocery shopping by myself, and the store was busy.  I was getting more and more frustrated with how other shoppers were blocking aisles and not paying attention to the fact that they were not the only people in the store.  It made me slightly grumpy.  And then I smelled my son.

It was all over me, the unmistakable scent of an infant, richest at the point where his hairline ends and his forehead begins.  I'm not sure if it was my mind triggering  a memory to placate my mood, but it worked.  I couldn't have cared less about the idiots surrounding me.  I had my son to go home to. 

I would climb a rope to the moon for him.  I'd dog paddle the Pacific.
I'd vote Republican.

(By the way, nice job with the tears, Hillary.  They seemed to have worked)

I can't believe I've lived forty years without him.   He seems like he has been here always.