It's the palm of his hand that I love the most right now. He pets me, rubs his soft palm across my arm, reaches out to pet my face, feel my nose, my cheeks. He grabs hold of my thumb, tiny clutches I never want to break even if before that moment I thought I needed my hand to do something else--grab my phone, the remote, my glass of water. He grabs my thumb and I realize that's all my thumb needs to do right now--sit and be held, feeling soft, feeling wanted.
He's got a wave in what's left of his thinning hair, a giant wave that flips up and over and I imagine a tiny surfer cruising through it, under it, all his soft, dark, fine baby hair.
And the coo. The coo that comes early morning. The one that replaces the newborn cry. I love to stand by the door, just outside and listen to what he has to say. Little ears discovering a little voice that can rise and fall, be LOUD, be soft. When he screams, we call him Giddy Cat because he wails it out, gives it all he can, makes sure no one else can be heard above him, makes sure we're all listening to what he has to say.
And a couple nights ago...he laughed. And I got to share it with David. That first real laugh is like a celebration--you want the neighbors to come, some wise men, a drummer boy. You want the world to hear the sound of his tiny happiness. The sound that comes when you tickle him just right between his chin and his neck. The sound that reminds you that he's coming alive. That he's more than just suckle and cry. That he's starting to know you, and you bring him joy too.
Giddy Cat Video:
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