Hello Mother, hello Father
I’m dressing Max for bed in his blue fleece footie jammies and he is babbling eight-month old speak into the air, staring up at the birds that hang down as diaper-changing distractions.
MmmmBUH. Yaaammbuhbuhbuh. Ehhh.
He twists his doughy torso, stretchhhhing out to reach the window blinds with hopeful wiggling fingers before giving up good naturedly with a flop. Then he returns to his monologue.
Mmmmm. Mammm. MUH. Ummmmuh.
“MAMA,” I say right into his open baby face. “MAH-MAH.” He grins, kicks his legs, stares at me, then back at the birds.
Buh bub mmm mmm mmmmAH. MAH. Ummah.
“That’s right,” I say. “MAAAA MAAAA. Mama! Mama loves Max. Mahhh mahhhh.”
Kick kick kick. Excited arms. Kick. Birds. Me. Birds. Me.
Then clear as day:
So close, buddy. So close.