The other day, after spying a small pile of brightly colored animals left behind by one of his sisters, Anders pulled himself up on his dad’s “head of the table” chair, settled himself – legs dangling – and had a little play. Animals bonked one another’s heads in happy acknowledgment and spoke greetings in fairly constant, friendly sounding gibberish.
I watched. And oh good heavens.
Love. Adore. Crazy about. Enchanted.
No. It’s no use. The words twist and tumble in my brain – banging into one another and scrambling together – as I try to discover the right ones. The exact right ones. The ones that are powerful enough.
It only makes me dizzy.
There is a sturdy, round and soft, little person – 17 1/2 months old – who runs about this house, zips along through every moment of our comings and goings and living, who drives little cars, and demands little drinks, and hugs little blankets, and . . . is mine. My very own boy.
And that doesn’t really describe anything at all.
Only . . . oh my. It feels like it describes something more than kingdoms and gold, more than oceans and mountains; something more than the very sun rising.
My little boy.
I will just settle for the one easiest word. Love. I love him. So much I love him.