Core

Something strange has happened. I woke up today and my newborn was suddenly three months old. Tucker seems to communicate with us more now; when we speak to him he smiles and bicycles his legs and Jazzercizes his arms. And he spits out new sounds almost as often as he spits out milk. His fists don’t maintain their signature balled up position all the time, his hands grasp and shake toys, as his eyes, big as lollipops, track their movement. A pair of notches settle between his brows as he examines his hands, our faces, the world. He is learning, studying the core courses he's outlined as his own little three month old curriculum, taking everything in. He's growing, in more ways than one.

And my little girl is growing, too. On my lap she likes her legs pulled up, toes tucked in. The soles of her feet are as smooth and as soft as the paws of a kitten. She buries me beneath a heaviness I enjoy, the weight of my child against my chest. I love you, Celia. I think these words over and over, willing them to the core of her being. She knows. I know she knows. And although she can't echo the words, can't give us hugs and kisses any more, she loves us back. Her daddy's good looks aren't the only thing reflected in her precious face. Our affection is reflected there, too. She loves us. And I feel it in my core.

JEB