Luke

I could talk about my son all day. He's miraculous. Every baby is, but Luke is mine. He always surprises me - just now I turned around to see what he was playing with, and discovered that he was sitting comfortably in his toy basket. I'm not even quite sure how he got in there. Nevertheless, there he was, and there he is now, humming and babbling to himself. What must be going on in his brain? I can't even imagine. And this little creature, just a little over a year ago, was growing inside of me. Nine months before that, he was nothing more than a cell. What a miracle. Sometimes I think I could have ten more. (Then I think of being pregnant and going into labor and cleaning up spit-up and what have you, and I think maybe I'll stick with three or four...) But it never stops amazing me, having a little person like this. Sometimes he's in his own little world, learning and exploring more in a day than I could learn in a month. And other times he connects with me, with a smile or a word that must mean something, if only I had a translation, or by whomping me in the chest with his head (seriously, that's a way we bond). And part of me wants to hear him say "Mommy" and "I love you," and another part wants him to stay this way, just on the verge of infancy and toddlerhood. I adore being a mother. I've wanted this all my life; I've anticipated motherhood as eagerly as I've longed to be a writer, perhaps even more so.

He's climbing back in the basket now. I think I'll go give him a giant hug.