At Least They're Committed

Aw! Look at you, handsome, wily boy! You are my sun, my moon, all the stars in my sky. I love that I can tell you that and (unlike your mom and uncles) you don’t cut me off or even flinch. I love your mischief . . . and I love that when I sing to you, you start to sing along in your own words. I love how — when I’m holding you and you’re paying attention to something else — you gently twirl my hair between your precious fingers.

I love when you get excited as you crawl up the stairs and you dip your head down almost to the carpet and laugh and laugh. I love that when I get excited when I see you, you squeal because you’re so happy that I get to see you. I love that you love books and the water and the leaves when they blow in the breeze and crawling in the grass. I love that I get to spoil you. I love every little thing about you and I pray that you always, always know that and feel that.