Little man, you are the sun in my sky.
When I watch you run "round and round," as you say, for endless minutes, I beam.
When you tell your little joke, "booby mommy, booby daddy, booby gama, booby bed, booby dumpa tuck," over and over, your daddy and I laugh uproariously, over and over. You're funnier than any comedian on his best day.
The discordant din of the coffee grinder sends you catapulting into my arms. "It's all right," I reassure you, "it is just daddy making coffee." Your rigid body gels as you climb off my lap and waddle into the kitchen to investigate. I hope you always know that you are safe with me.
Your newest demonstration of deep feeling is to open your mouth wide and let out an angry "eeoooow." This afternoon, inexplicably, you bristled at mommy when your leapfrog toy malfunctioned. "Eeoooww," you cried, stomping over to daddy, pointing in my direction. "That makes you so mad!" I exclaimed. And then, inexplicably, you giggled.
At bedtime, your aquamarine eyes drooped as we trudged through the book about the little caput who gets very hungry and eats ice cream cones and chocolate cake. "Do you like chocolate cake?" I ask. "Mmm, hmmm," you sigh. I kiss your satin cheeks.
God, thank you for my little man. After all, it was You who placed the sun in my sky.
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