It is a thick, beautiful day…muggy enough to drink the air. Time to wake Anja for a picnic snack before it rains!
I’ve been thinking, and sometimes saying aloud, to Markus, how much I love him. I tell him:
I love your dimply, tight fists more than anybody else.
Your googly eyes make me chuckle.
I’m gaga over your squishy, edible arms.
I love your kiwi fuzz hair, and your little rubbed-bald spot.
I love the smell of your neck, though I rarely see it (haha!).
I can’t get enough of your giant, gummy smile. It makes my knees weak.
I love the deep creases in your Michelin Man legs.
I could nibble your rotund cheeks all day, waiting for your raspy laugh with each bite.
Even the lint stuck between your fat, pink, healthy toes is cute.
Nobody nuzzles your Daddy-esque cowlick, raspberries your giant belly, gnaws on your smooshy shoulders with as much adoration as me.
I hang on every “word” you utter in your husky baby voice.
I wish each month at this stage could be drawn out to a year (other than the lack of sleep part)…at no other age will I be so treasured as a mother, at no other time will I be so deeply, profoundly the apple of his eye. I think anyone would eat up that kind of love.