the Coterie

Two days after Christmas he was born. Flawless and beautiful. All was calm; all was bright.

Two days after that, his parents and big sister brought him home. He looked like Papaw. Maybe it was just the bald head, but he sure was cute in that red plaid zip-up onesie that made him look like a miniature, hairless mountain man with big eyes and tiny, pink feet.

Two weeks later he looked like his mom, especially when he turned his head to one side and blinked during “Tummy-time.” He also had het chunky little forearms; “Popeye arms”, as we used to say.

At two months he was holding his head up and looking around. He liked the feel of a kitty brushing up against his skin and the warm, comfortable feeling in his belly after a six-ounce bottle of “baby drink.” Time both crept slowly during those sleep-interrupted days and nights but also flew by in a blur of diapers, baths, well-baby checkups and outfit changes.

Today he is two-and-a-half. How did he go from rolling and army crawling across the carpet to mastering playground climbers and slides? How did he go from coos and gurgles to “I wanna pah-sick-o, peeze” as he leads me to the freezer door? He doesn’t toddle; he struts. He sports his Bass Pro Shops ball cap and his little camo Crocs like his dad wears, but still wants night kisses and his stuffed dog and bull dozer blanket for sleeps. He loves his orange “ba-kee-ball” and dancing to Jimmy Buffet’s Volcano song. 

When he sees me he says, “Hey broh!” and gigges. He’s a funny little man.

My youngest grandchild is growing up fast. We are building memories and taking photos and videos to preserve all the moments. He may be the last baby in the (immediate) family for a long time, but for now he is still our cuddle-bug-buddy-boy with big blue eyes and a bowl haircut. If he falls down and cries, I console him. When he’s learning his colors, I celebrate him. If he needs a random hug, I embrace him. 

I love this kid!