![]() He was perfectly content burrowed in a wrap, tight against the warmth of my body, only peeking out with a toothless smile when he saw fit.īorn three years apart, I fell hard and deeply for my guys. He, who I affectionately joked would prefer I had a pouch, like a mama kangaroo. ![]() ![]() My sweet, kind boy clung closely to me for his first year of life. Unlike his brother, his eyes were squeezed shut, we joke he wasn’t ready to be born. He was born bright red and wrinkly, screaming so loudly, his voice echoed throughout the delivery room. Odd really, because he would be the only one of us to develop an allergy to them. When my second son was born, I nicknamed him peanut. Big, dark, oval eyes looking at us with razor-sharp focus, as if he was thinking, already, about who he would become and how we would fit into his life. The physical trait he most inherited from me. I already trusted that smile, memorized those lips and I felt myself melt wrapped in those arms. He was the spitting image of my husband so I fell in love with him instantly and with ease. In fact, he was a beautiful golden boy with a mound of dark, curly hair and the pinkest little lips. ![]() When my first son was born, I nicknamed him pickle. ![]()
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