He used to fit in the crook of my arm.

He used to fit in the crook of my arm.

When he was small. This tiny little breathing, heart beating thing that grew in me.

He used to nurse on my breast. And fall asleep on my chest. And spit up and wet all over every inch of me.

He used to coo. And his tiny dimple would move. And a smile would make its presence. Probably just gas but that didn’t matter because he used to eventually giggle and try to wiggle and when he could crawl around a room forget it I said… time is now meaningless.

Each day that’s passed as his body grew, his brain did too. He’s always been better than me.

He used to fit in my arms. His weight sustained on my hips. Carrying him this time outside my skin but still straining my ribs.

He used to believe I was almost everything. For a hot minute. Until he learned object permanence and I was just a part of everything he’d eventually see and he prioritized me among the list.

As it should be.

And once, when he was three? Well, he straight up yelled at me. To pay him attention. He had something to say, something to speak, something he knew I didn’t about ninja turtles or lego or Mario & Luigi.