passing into month seven, i am struck by how rooted in babyhood we are, and yet how very near boyhood is. among myriad tricks, francis sits, swings, scoots, brims with opinions and preferences and will, engages with passersby all on his own, and devours food from a spoon that he reaches for and manages himself. it was tender and beautiful, that inaugural taste of guacamole — in all his life, his first nourishment beyond my body — but as with every milestone and day and breath we meet together, we are each left reaching for more, more, more.
he is growing, and i am watching.
he is happening, and i am not missing a thing.