All the fingers and all the toes
Impossibly small and fragile my son seemed when he was born. Less than 3lbs and only 15 inches long at birth he was a scrawny little chicken with fine blond fuzz on his head and big blue eyes. I looked at him that first night he was born with a mixture of awe, fear, confusion, love and panic. And desire. I had never desired something as much as I desired my son. His skin was the softest, his smell the most delicious. I had wondered what it would be like and there was no way I could have imagined a month in the NICU, nursing him every 45 minutes for 4 months around the clock and all the worry and sicknesses and worry. Worry for everything. He was small. Still is on the small side but fine, just fine. He is ridiculously smart, borderline nerd. Has the most empathic heart and is one of the most loving and kind-hearted people I have ever known.
So, he’ll be 10 and in those 10 years it hasn’t been all roses and puppies and rainbows. It’s a lot of LEGOS, pokemon, logs floating in the toilet that were not flushed, burping at breakfast, ripped pants, whining about emptying the dishwasher and all chores and sullen looks when he is told to take shower.
But sometimes he hugs me so hard that he knocks me over, kisses my face, tells me he loves me. Tonight while we were piled in a heap on his bed with Sister he looks at us girls and says “I love you both so much. I am so lucky to have the family I have. ” And he means it. I was mostly indifferent or afraid of my family so I must be doing something right.
Or maybe I am just lucky.