The small boy turned four months old on March fourth! Four long months that have zipped by. Already it's hard to believe he grew inside of me - I lived through it and I still can't wrap my mind around it (I guess that's why it's a miracle) - and came out, half as big as he is now. He eats, he naps, he pees, he poots and poops, he drools and squeaks and squeals, he grins so big it defies gravity. His favorite toy is a hand, fingers wiggling to watch and grab. And he french-kisses his monkey rattle. It's possibly the most adorable thing I've ever seen.
Meanwhile, my out-of-body self is watching me try not to become a cliche, as the baby has become the center of my universe. Certainly when others ask about him or compliment him, I'm happy to share, but otherwise I'll bring up other topics instead. I don't carry pictures around (except in my heart), and I have time away, time to be me and to interact with the world as a whole adult human, not a mother. And yet. As much as I appreciate and need that time and those activities (teaching, circles, the Y), I miss him, even if I'm only gone an hour. It's not that I'm missing him and thinking about him while I'm gone; actually, it's almost as if I don't have a baby, but as soon as I get home, all I want to do is snuggle and kiss him.
(oops - I hear him waking from his morning nap, so this will have to do for now - that's how we roll these days)