sweet dreaming.

One day, all too soon, you'll be lying in your big boy bed, willing your eyes to stay open, fighting sleep like all toddlers do. You'll ask me, "mama, tell me a story about when I was a baby" and I, never able to resist telling my babies about my babies, will oblige. I'll snuggle down closer to you and I'll whisper in your ear. And here's what I'll say:

When you were a baby you screamed like a banshee. You delighted the house with your shrieks and squeals from sun up to sundown. When you were a baby you loved to take a bath with your big sister; splashing and flapping and kicking and cooing. You grabbed Sarah's hair by the fistfuls and buried your face in it if ever she got near enough. When you were a baby your feet sweat like a grown man's. It's one of the things you can thank your daddy for. We would stand you up barefoot at the window to look outside but 10 seconds later you'd be slipping and sliding on the floor like an iceskater. When you were a baby you were happiest cuddled up in mama and daddy's bed, sucking away at your ring finger - backwards. For that matter you were happiest cuddling your mama anywhere. Or your sister. Or your Daddy. You learned early to call out for us - mamama and dadada and rarara. And you learned to answer to B-Ro rather than Ephraim. When you were a baby you loved Cheerios and goldfish and wood chips and rocks - they all tasted delicious. You wanted your food cold and your milk warm and refused each if they happened to come the other way around.

My son, when you were a baby you were amazing. Your smile lit up a room and your laugh was contagious. You were my first boy and my last baby and my sweetest B-Ro forever. Now goodnight.