When Noah was born, it was like the sun and the moon and the stars came to live in my house, in my arms. It was shocking and brilliant and blinding and I wanted to tell everyone -- everyone! -- about the celestial little being I'd birthed, and about everything little thing he did as if he was the first baby to ever do any of it, because as far I knew, he was.
Writing about Ezra has been harder -- yes, yes, I remember the helicoptering arms and legs and how they're constantly smiling at some point in the distance while you try to figure out whether it's the curtain rod or the beige wall paint that has them so excited, and yes, there's no need to freak out when they start pooping less or coo something that sounds just like "mama" -- but not because he is any less wondrous to me. I revel in every moment with him -- I never, ever put him down so I can greedily suck up those moments, even if it means typing blog posts with my arm awkwardly bent and raised and aching while his little hand curls around my wrist as he sleeps and snores beside me. The gentle heft of his growing body feels so good, his smiles are so fantastic, the wonderful Gerber Baby-ness of his beautiful face is so indescribable I don't even see the point in trying. I just want to enjoy him.
Having him is like discovering that there is, in fact, a second sun and moon and galaxy of stars. They may be a lot like the ones you've seen before, but are still completely unique and amazing. And you sit and you stare and you smile, as your heart bends and expands to fit this new universe.