We Cuddled a Bit Longer That Night

I came home from school in time to get The Boy ready for bed. Part of the routine involves washing his hands. He sits at the sink in only his diaper (some nights I let him wear his pajamas, which usually necessitates another changing; I don't know why I do that), and as I hold his hands under the water to help him scrub we sing the ABCs. Usually he sings along with me, but this night he just watches me in the mirror with eyes as bright and honest as they are blue. We finish and I reach to turn the faucet off, but he asks for "moe" (more). I wash his hands and sing the ABCs again. When we're done I ask if we should do it again. He shows me his dimple before saying, "yeah." I realize it isn't the hand washing or even my singing he is asking for. I skip the song this time, and we just listen to the water splash in the sink. My hands engulf his. They are so small; fragile, yet I can feel the strength in them. When we finish he puts his thumb in his mouth, lays his head on my arm, and closes his eyes.

mw