Today, I held a little boy on my lap.  He grasped a book in his hand and kept some by his side for back-ups.

He came to me while the lunch dishes were being cleared and asked me to read him a book.  “Two or three books,” he corrected when he realized I might be inclined to say yes.

I sat on the floor and a little boy who no longer has dimples on his hands sat in my lap.  A little boy who used to fit there as if in a little nest sprawled out his legs in front of him because he doesn’t quite fit there anymore.

We read Are You My Mother? and a book that was far too scary for him but he said it wasn’t.  I don’t know how going on a bear hunt can not be too scary.  But he’s big.

He’s getting so, so big.

I smelled his hair and kissed the back of his neck.  He smelled sweetly sweaty, the way little boys do after they’ve been wrestling their brothers, the way baby boys do when you nurse them in the summer and the heat from their bodies against yours makes the sweetest smell you’ve ever known.

Someday, he’ll smell big-boy sweaty, and that’s a different thing entirely.

But not now.  Now, he is still a bit of my baby boy.  He wants to climb up on my lap and read stories.  And on this beautiful day, I think this is the part of motherhood I like best.