That was the answer I got when I asked a dear friend how her son was doing. We had already covered the weather and work, and it was on to the good stuff. I wanted to know about her baby, and I could hear the change in her voice. She perked up, and fairly sparkled over the phone. Her baby, born two months after my boys, is perfect. And so it goes.
I've been thinking about that a lot lately. "He's perfect." I realized that my sons are also perfect. They're eight months old, and full of wonder, unsullied by the cares life will lob at them someday. We've passed the newborn, colicky stage. They are smooth and round and happy. Their little bellies are calm, and fit so snugly under their barrel chests and chubby chins. They wake up happy every day, looking around to see what's new. My face, puffy eyes and unruly hair notwithstanding, is beautiful to them. Every mashed banana is the best banana in the world, every bite is partaken with gusto and verve. Movement is play. Kisses and smiles flow freely. So does the mama milk. Life is good.
Don't get me wrong... life is good, but it's still hard. I'm still adjusting to this new math. 1 mommy + 1 daddy + 2 babies + 1 salary = a whole different lifestyle. And my little marathon nurser will go the distance and nurse ALL NIGHT LONG if I let him. (Which I sometimes do, because it's easier to sleep that way.) And I'm tired... and hopelessly out of shape... and and and. But my boys, the lights of my life, my babies?
They are perfect.