Number Two has been coming into his own lately. I suppose he was always cute, in the way that any baby is, but now he's done and gone Gerber Baby on me. His face is round but not jowly; his hair is a fluff of fine white gold over enormous eyes. He is ruddy and smooth. He doesn't give away smiles, but when his lips curl in a flirt, it's worth the price of admission.
Today at breakfast a stranger with black ringlets around her face kissed his fingers. Another gentleman told me my son should be on television. That same man's mother was dining with him, and she looked from her baby--who was 60 years old if he was a day--to mine.
"He was young like that, once," she told me.
I said "I know," but I doubt she believed me. How could I know? But I do. It's why you might catch me looking sad sometimes; why I am quiet on occasion. I fade into these moments more often with each passing day--when I age 50 years in the time it takes Number Two's hand to skitter across my cheek, his fingers falling into my open mouth. The corners of his mouth lift, pulling his eyes even wider, as I nip at him. I'll eat you up.
It's a taste I'll savor long after my teeth are gone and my grin is as gummy as his is now.