Few acts are sweeter than knitting a very soft, tiny hat for a very new baby boy.
Today my not-so-new baby boy tipped right into a mud puddle and, while he recovered at the first promise of a bath, gave himself quite the goose egg. Later on he bent a fingernail back rather fiercely but, thank goodness, did not break it. He is coordinated and sturdy and excellent at catching most every fall, but still we are entering an era of new bumps and bruises as he climbs higher and more daringly. Not a reckless thrill-seeker, he simply prefers rough terrain, the road less traveled. The universe again and again proves how much he is my child.
My little love. This hat I’m knitting isn’t for him; it won’t be able to stretch over his curls, let alone cover that bruise. I don’t want him to be ‘saved’ from his growing pains. It does startle me, though, the literal cry of shock that my own mother body insists on when they happen.