I don't know how it happened. My sweet little baby. The baby I was told I could never have. The baby I prayed and prayed would stay in my tummy until at least 36 weeks. My sweet baby boy is now six months old. And he is thriving. He has the sweetest temperament too. He loves to give me hugs and kisses. He loves to be held and rocked. He loves it when I sing to him. He loves the big kids at daycare. He has a mean left-legged jump in his jump-jump. He rolls like a champ. His smile will melt your heart, and he is already flirting with girls. Any girl. All girls. Every girl. Especially the older girls. Particularly Ada. She is six months older and they met at daycare. It was love at first sight. Technically I am six months older than Brian, but we are 32 and 33 or 33 and 33 and 34 depending on the month. But Brady is only six months old, and Ada is 12 months. She is just too mature for him. Good thing she is moving over to the the toddler room--where Brady can admire her from afar.
As I write this post. Brian, his brother and his Dad are all out in our tiny little kitchen making pumpkin waffles and bacon for breakfast. They have come from various parts of the country to gather in our house and make memories with Brady. Pumpkin-waffle-y, cold-coffee that has been sitting too long, because the conversation never ends, laugh-y, baby-drool-y, remember the time...when? Memories. My heart is full.
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