The first smiles of a baby are the high of a new and powerful drug. The first time we noticed one that didn’t seem gas-induced, we both became hopelessly addicted.
I get flashes of him as the little boy he’ll become, running ahead of us on a walk to feed the ducks at the park.
I see his messy hair, his runny nose and rosy cheeks, his tiny sneakers pounding on the gravel. And how thrilled he is to run headlong into a gathering of pigeons and watch them scatter.
This is the stuff that gets you through these first intense weeks of being tethered. Little gifts hiding where you least expect. On the change table, stark naked, two seconds before he pees on me: a grin. And I’m hooked.