You are bigger now than you were a few minutes ago.
Did the small crunchy thing you ate on the floor have a tag like the mushroom that Alice ate?
Never mind. You can't read yet. Thank God.
I need to remember not to leave Lewis Carol books on the floor.
You are giant.
No longer the still and sleeping little warm larvae in my arms.
You are wiggly and giggly and beautiful.
Some day you will have to shave that sweet, soft face.
Some day you will have your heart broken.
Some day it will feel weird to curl up in my lap and stroke my cheek.
I don't want to think about that yet.
I ball you like a stuffed animal in my arms while you sleep
You are still so young that your breath always smells perfect
You writhe the uncomfortable rhythm of someone partially aware they have peed their pants
I can change you in the dark.
Motherhood gave me infrared vision.
You will not remember this.
I think I will remember it all
but I thought that with your older brother
I don't remember if his first word was Dog or Dadda...
it was not Mama
When he first said "Mama" my heart exploded
Now he won't stop saying it.
Ever.
You are my last baby.
The last month you will be wordless.
The last times I will see you alternate between crawl and walk.
Soon, your belly will slim and give way to little boy.
Your little mouth requesting to play a video game
Little hands drawing pictures
WAIT!
Please don't eat anything else off the floor.
