This morning I laid you in your basket in the middle of the bathroom floor. As I scrubbed sinks, a toilet, shower, and tub, I sang and danced along to Shania Twain. You thought it was the best and grinned every time we made eye contact. I hope I’m a fun mom, but you probably don’t want to associate “cool” with me. I really am not terribly cool and that was confirmed as I saw my dancing reflection in the bathroom mirror. But it entertained you and kept you happy. And since I refuse to fill my home with every gadget you’re supposed to have these days — well, I guess you’re stuck with me for amusement.
Your lips were made to be kissed. I’m sure of that. And if they weren’t — well, oh well — they’re kissed all the time. Your face is changing so quickly it seems and you look more and more boy to me. This morning you laid on my bed and stared out the window at the frenzy of falling snow. I stop and stared at you. Don’t grow up too fast, k? No more fluke rolling over, alright? Be my newborn for a lot longer.