Right now you are asleep on the couch. You woke early from nap, snuggled in my arms, and drifted off again. You are no longer a little baby. You do not sleep well in my arms. You fidget and wiggle until I lay you down where you can stretch out comfortably.
You are long lashes and crazy, sweaty, little boy hair.
You are scraped knees, evidence of a many walks and tumbles.
You are rounded toes and thumb in mouth.
I tiptoe upstairs and peek in another room. I see you in a few years…
Toes still deliciously plump.
The same scraped knees, only now it is essential they are covered in multicolored bandaids.
No problem, buddy.
You are still thumb in mouth, but you are growing. Tears sting my eyes. What a lovely little guy.
My eyes travel around the room. I see your afternoon absence in a few years. A bed without a nap.
A closet full of Legos - waiting.
You are not home, but this is still your home. You are learning and laughter and friends in the street.
And while I'm so very happy to be a witness to this progression, I will not yet allow myself to think about the day when your home will not be with me. Right now, I will sneak back downstairs, sit on the floor in front of the couch and thank God that I can just watch you breath and grow.