Is it just me, or does my son look like Mr. Magoo?  I’m thinking he’s got a nickname, now.  How’s my little Magoo?  I sing to them, the same song each time, every day.  Of course it’s a Carly Simon song, and if they don’t like it, they better hurry it up and get strong enough to punch me out, or at least drown me out with their cries. 

I love lilacs and avocados
Ukuleles and fireworks
And Woody Allen and walking in the snow
But you’ve got to know that

You’re the love of my life
You are the love of my life
You are the love of my life
You are the love of my life
From the moment I first saw you
The second that you were born
I knew that you were the love of my life
Quite simply the love of my life

I love Lucy and pumpernickel bread
The Statue Of Liberty and standing ovations
And falling into bed
But get it through your head that

You’re the love of my life…

I change the words, creating my own now and then, changing the lyrics up to include "Magoo" and something to do with milk and my boobs.  But the message is the same, I love them, so sweetly, and I was lucky enough to bond with them before I even touched them.  As soon as my doctor pulled them from my body, and I was able to tell their father, he had a son and daughter, I cried right there.  I was in love from the second I first saw them.  And I know that doesn’t happen with everyone, but I do, even if one of them does look like Mr. Magoo.