He twists his head, stretches open his mouth, reaches for milk the way a front crawl swimmer turns for air. The whorls of his ears are as marvelously convoluted as a conch, symmetry imperfectly precise. His hands, less like floundering sea creatures, stretch with more intent. He grasps toys, brings his toes to his mouth, cuddles blankets at his chest. Five fingers curl around one of my own, holding fast while he sleeps. He slumbers with lids screwed tight, mouth shut firm, tackling such serious business with all the concentration it deserves. When they're open, the deep water blue of his eyes is receding, but anxiety still gathers in his brow right before he cries. He is patient, except when he is really not.
He seems to have been studying a manual on how to be a human being, with particular attention to chapters like growing and grabbing earrings and finding your voice and demonstrating surprise. He is four months old. And we love him farther than we can see.