It’s a Friday, and you’re both asleep.  The three of us are in the media room in the dark.  Your father has converted the room into an obstacle course: an activity yard abuts a papasan swing, then an exer-saucer, a bouncy seat, and some contraption with hanging rings and an Elmo who pops up and giggles at you.  You both looked so happy today. 

I was sitting on the sofa watching you, Abigail.  And at one point, with a toy alligator in your mouth, you looked up at me, stopped mouthing your toy, and gave me the biggest smile, the dimple on your upper right cheek spreading. Then you said, “Ma ma ma ma ma ma.”  It’s the only sound you really like to make, aside from your piercing squeals. 

Lucas, you were on the activity mat putting your foot in your mouth, your hips rocking gently.  I’d smile at you, and you’d reflect it for me, and I wouldn’t be able to do anything but come down to you and kiss your belly then whisper how much I love you in your sweet potato ear.  I can’t wait to get in there and q-tip myself content.  Your doctor tells me not to put anything in there smaller than my elbow, but I don’t care.  I love grooming you, almost as much as you’ll always hate it. 

I watched a movie today while feeding you both.  It wasn’t very good, but I liked it.  It was about a brother and sister who loved the same woman–which I’ll explain to you one day.  I was touched by the footage where the siblings were shown as children, racing through a yard, or down a street, competing, pulling hair maybe.  You’re very lucky to have each other.  You won’t always know this, but eventually you will. 

There was a point today where you were both reaching for the same crinkled leaf on the activity mat, and I loved seeing you both sitting, legs touching, abiding by some unspoken baby rule.  I love you both so much, loved holding you both in my lap today, your chubby little legs on mine, our small little family, taking up as much space as one pretzel made of legs and knots that will keep us together forever.  I love you.