Just an hour ago, in my arms, he snorted, and chuckled, and LOL'ed.
And I couldn't help but think about the dark, long time when he didn't. A three year old caught in confusion and chaos and fear of adults figuring things out.
And then I didn't want to think of that any more, and I made him laugh more, hugging him, squeezing him, tickling him. Holding him.
Watching his face and suddenly realizing he's on a huge growth spurt. His face is more defined and grown; his features, no longer toddler-like; his attitude, more settled; his needs, more verbalized and formed.
I think of his heart occasionally and pacify myself by thinking - believing - he's OK, and everything inside him is ticking just fine. I think the Spirit groans with me in that moment, an unspoken prayer, a plea that I'm right about all this.
My son, my love. I don't do well at all times remembering to treasure your physicality, your rough hugs, your expressed need to 'spend time.' I will do better tomorrow, I promise.
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