The box fan's on 2, the wind noise is blowing, and the white wood blinds and long chocolate curtains are shuttting out most of the summer evening's stubborn sunshine.
The robin's egg nursery is dimly lit by the mini lamp on the '50s teacher desk I found for 25 bucks at the Maple Valley Goodwill. It's right next to the oversized brown chair once used for nursing, now a place to read bedtime stories.
It's 7:45 p.m. on a Friday night, about 20 minutes behind schedule.
"Who's this?" Mr. T points to his own chest. "T Junior. Who's this?"
Our son is as long as his soft, yellow changing pad. He's laying on it in his diaper waiting for someone to put pajamas on him. "Dada," he whispers without removing his two favorite fingers from his mouth: the index and middle ones on his right hand.
"That's right! And, who's this?" Mr. T taps my collarbone.
"Mama." T Junior smiles with those fingers between his teeth, exposing his gap. A bead of saliva runs down the back of his hand.
"That's right! Mama!" Me and Mr. T clap and smile at each other.
My husband of seven years is beaming. His eyes glisten with joy. "He's so cute when he says mama."
I love my life.
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2 comments:
It is the best sound in the whole world, those two simple syllables.
I love this! I still remember when words were few and far between, eventually he will be saying things like, "no" and "I want to wear diapers forever!" Cherish the mama and dada moments.
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