New ritual: morning cuddles. Justin weaves through piles of laundry in the early morning darkness, retrieves The Boy with his inevitably icy feet, tousled and disoriented but already rattling a stream of greetings and tall tales.

We strip him to the flesh and tuck him between us under what must seem to him like mountains of toasty, downy fluff, and we chat, and we giggle, and Justin and I steal warm, squishy handfuls of groggy Boy. We hide together from the day until the light breaks through the curtain.

This morning from deep under the sheets he chimed, “Mama! A BUS!” (That’s my cue, you see.) “Evan, do you see a bus?” He pauses. “No,” he says authoritatively, like I’m nuts. Of course there’s no bus, silly mama! I was just *imagining* a bus. Silly mama.

Peppering the multiple-pregnancy funk (on which I am determined to launch a full-scale offensive) are moments of concentrated amazement—he gives me kisses when I ask for it, demands horsie rides on daddy’s back (“AGAIN! AGAIN!”). Our chatting is intentional now, two-sided. “Evan, are you a good boy?” I ask. “Yeeeah!” he replies. We hug like monkeys, limbs all atangle. I can't help but murmur, "Mmm hmm, mmm hmm" at the deliciousness. Now, he joins me. We cling to each other and hum our love.

He farted at dinner tonight, grinned and exclaimed, “P-U!”

Heaven.