My funny foreign friend

He is my first baby to suck his thumb. 

He loves his monkey blankey. 

It took him forever to walk. 

We think he might speak French. 

Or German. 

My last baby. 

He is by far my most babyish baby. 

He loves he to be snuggled, rocked and carried around. 

He is huge. 

He just doesn't know it. 

His idea of a good time is laying in my arms sucking his thumb and poking my face until I sing to him. 

Turns out my idea of a good time is the same thing. 

But sometimes I have to run away from him because my family's idea of a good time is having dinner and clean laundry to wear. 

So I hide. 

And try to get things done. 

He always finds me. 

He peeks around the corner and babbles (Italian maybe?) and smiles at me. 

A smile like he hasn't seen me in years. 

He toddles over and lays on my lap, pops his thumb in and looks up at me. 

Pure love. 

Clean clothes are overrated. 

I have seen babies grow up before. 

But I shudder to think that will happen to him. 

He is too rolly. And giggly. And chubby. And cuddly. And desperately needy. And always hungry. 

His cheeks are pudding filled pillows.

He doesn't care how long and hard you kiss them.

He seems to understand they serve a higher purpose. 

He's so chill. 

He softens the heart of every member of this tribe. 

What does one do without a baby? 

I think a part of my heart will close up. 

Close around the sounds, the smells and the feelings of babyhood. 

Tuck them away. 

For they are too sacred to leave out on the table. 

What does one do without a baby?

Without that simplistic sweetness. 

Wide eyed curiosity. 

Wet drooling kisses.

What will I do with my arms?

What does one do without a baby?

I really don't know. 

Tonight I gaze down into his crib and watch him sleep. 

And tomorrow I will squeeze his little footie pajama guts out. 

And wrap his chubby body around my face like a scarf. 

And ponder that question another day.