There Can Only Be One

He discovered snow, as in, started to really "get it," when a storm blew in last weekend.

"No-man, no-man, no-man," he said whenever a snowman--or something like it--passed into his line of vision.

I find myself breathing him in and soaking him up these days, while he wraps his arms around my neck and surrenders to sleep; while he dangles his cup from the edge of his tray, threatening mischief with two ominous syllables ("Ba...boom!"); while he pushes my head toward Dave's to encourage us to kiss. (When he gets to the "my parents are gross" phase, that one will come back to haunt him.)

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Will walked around my parents' living room today with a non-functioning phone.

"Hey-ooooo?" he said, the handset tucked in the crook of his neck.

"Who is it?" I asked.

"Dada," he replied dismissively. He ALWAYS says "Dada," even if Dada is right there, in the flesh.

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I'm 38 weeks pregnant today. I spent much of the day preoccupied with the logistics of fitting in that seven-mile walk, the one I'm counting on to induce labor the way it did with Will.

Please can this next contraction be a little less Braxton-Hicks and a little more UH-OH, WHERE ARE THE NEWBORN MITTENS?

And then I dressed my 15-month-old in a new pair of striped pajamas, and they were size 3T, and THEY FIT. (Because he is just improbably long, this kid--miles and miles of torso.)

I get to spend every day with HIM.

The seven-mile walk can wait.