Mr. Wonderful

Dear heavenly baby,

I know we've only just met, but I already love you.

I'm not exactly sure when you arrived here at my little Charm City abode, but I think it was sometime around six weeks ago. You must've sat outside my son's window, waiting patiently until he cried himself to sleep, before creeping into his bedroom and climbing into his crib along with him. I imagine you nestled up beside him and whispered something in his ear. Something like, "I'm sorry to inform you, but your time here has come to an end, Mr. Fussy Pants. Now, if you would be so kind, please escort yourself to the nearest exit. Good day."

And with that, the Sam that I knew shimmied his way down the side of his crib and ran off into the Baltimore night. I like to think that he's now a regular at the neighborhood pubs, where no one cares if you hoot and holler, and causing a ruckus is not only accepted, but highly encouraged. Oh Original Sam, I hope you're having a good time, you little hoodlum you.

Anyway...back to my new, angelic, little-slice-of-ginger-headed-heaven baby. You are a dream, sir. Not to mention, a seasoned traveler. Yep, just last weekend when we flew home from Illinois, you were so kind as to not make a peep. In fact, you slept the entire way. While I was busy clutching the armrests during a particularly pleasant part of the flight, you just lied there on the seat next to me, snoozing away, dreaming of swimming through a pool of applesauce or sweet potatoes, I suppose. Even when the plane landed, bouncing and screeching down the runway, you didn't make a sound. And when we finally had to snap you into your stroller, you just barely opened your heavy eyes, lifting your brows as if to say, "What's a kid gotta do to get some peace and quiet around here?! Sheesh." Oh, you make me laugh, New-and-Improved Sam.

Even now, you've been lying on your playmat for 2 hours, your eyes glued to your girlfriend, Ina Garten. Sure, every couple of minutes you'll roll from side to side or let out a little howl, but mostly you just smile and laugh and kick your legs like a mini Michael Phelps. And sometimes, when you're feeling extra bold, you'll even get up on your hands and knees and think about starting to crawl, which always stops me in my tracks. I then proceed to get down on the floor right next to you, look into those big blue eyes and say, "Sam, you're doing a really good job." And I mean it.

Oh, I do so love this new stage in our lives, my little babe. But you know what? If you happen to run into the old, cranky Original Sam, you can tell him that he can come back from time to time if he wants to. I can take him. Because now I know that you exist, Mr. Wonderful. And, trust me, that's enough.


1 comment:

Janet Scott said...

So how much time can I waste sitting here just adoring that picture of Mr. Wonderful and wishing he was with me, standing in my lap with his right foot strumming?