His head is nestled under my chin, his body is molded to mine. Every time I breath in, I can smell the sweet fruity scent of his shampoo, still cool from his bedtime bath. His little hand is curled around my finger to ensure that I am there. His steady breathing, his sleepy sigh. I smile and kiss the soft curve of his cheek which holds the last bit of his baby-hood in it's delicious fullness.
It wasn't so long ago that he was a newborn, his every need dependent upon me.
Too soon, I won't even be able to hold him when he sleeps.
Too soon, there will be a morning that I wake up and his butt won't be in my face.
Too soon, he won't poke me in the eye and whisper "ake up mama, ake up!"
Maybe that's why I haven't pushed so hard to get him into his own bed (even if I still am not getting up with him in the middle of the night).
I thought we had escaped the separation anxiety stage. Or maybe I'm forgetting it.
Whatever the case, it's here now.
When Joe left for work yesterday morning, I could see it in David's face. He crumbled and cried. It may not have been so bad had it not been 4:30 am and had he maybe gone back to sleep.
Anytime we go anywhere, he wants us all to go. Even if it's a quick trip to the store.
If we need to run outside for the mail, one of us has to distract him while the other makes a mad dash.
He is anxious, nose pressed to the window, watching for our return.
It has begun to happen even with his sister.
I'm not entirely convinced that some blow-up look-a-likes would be a bad idea.