The other day I was talking to my friend David. About how much our kids weigh, and other things. Monkeydad said "almost 25 pounds". And to David I said, "about as much as a bag of clay". Very slightly startled he laughed and said "yes, that's my unit of measure too".

Strangely or not, since I lugged around bags of clay they have been my benchmark.

Last night, late, tired, I thought to myself "I'm going to have to look up what that is called" as monkeybaby put his hand on me as he drifted back to sleep on my lap. He curls into me and especially when I have on a more minimalist shirt will put his left hand on my neck and arms and collarbone-ish area for security. His right arm is against me and his right hand is in his mouth. I realized as I felt his tiny hand, slightly cooler than my chest that he was putting his hand on my heart.

The other day as we had dinner I was sitting next to him and wearing a sleeveless shirt he was pointing at my freckles and kissing them. I'm assuming he thought they were boo-boos.

Time ticks by. I am so thankful for him. He's a right pain sometimes, but even in the midst of a screaming meltdown in the doorway of the supermarket because he didn't want to hold my hand if he was going to walk, 9 times out of 10 I'm able to pick him up and snuggle him and he calms down quickly and we go along as needed.*

*this does not apply to dinner table tantrums, those are frequently beyond fixing by merely being mama.