I could gobble him up.

Dear Tolliver,

It was about this time, exactly a year ago, that you were born, and meeting you felt kind of like meeting the rest of my life.  A little on the cold side of perfect, the day was crisp as a new dollar bill, spotless and full of possibility.  Just like you. 

When you arrived I was humbled, and equally awed, to be holding a healthy bundle of baby.  I positioned the sweet, swaddled shape of you in the crook of my elbow.  I marveled at your bigness and your smallness, at your perfection and your potential.  I felt a certain muddled wondrousness.  I still do. 

Now you’re like a tiny despot, using dynamite to declare your desires.  When I pry something, say an electronic device or a choking hazard, from your insistent fist, your will flares up like a fever.  And I have to be honest, I love that you're passionate, but I'm not always thrilled to see strong feelings flicker across your features.  You travel at roughly the speed of light, only faster, and you play until exhaustion overpowers your urge to protest bedtime.  Once you're asleep, I find myself missing the drool on your chin and your smooth pink cheeks, your swayed back and round belly, the way your eyes shut in a smile.

With your arrival, Tollie, the miracle of life re-illuminated my universe.  Thanks for bringing sunshine and fireworks to all my days, bright boy.
Love,
Mama