Something Not to Forget

JD is five. (Five and a half.) I took and registered him for kindergarten yesterday. He was (is) so jazzed. They got to tour a school bus and he sat in a seat with one of his besties and I couldn't see their little boy heads over the high seat backs, but I could hear him: "This is AWESOME!" We decided to play hooky from his pre-school and went to a bakery and ate chocolate cake together. It was just us two, for the first time since Matty came around. I love him, my firstie and my bestie. This morning I picked him up in a hug, and I held him tight and I said, "What am I going to do when you're too big for me to pick up like this?" He leaned back and tilted his head, and said, "Well, I guess I'll just have to hug you then." *********** Matthew is two. (Two and a half.) I have so much to say, so much to remember, so much not to forget. I am sad for myself that I did not write it all down, becaused some of it is lost already. If he could ever know how I love him, he would understand. He is my sweetest, sweetest, kind and lovely, soft and funny, rough and crazy, tough as dirt, delicious as butter, mine. My baby and my bestie. I just can't seem to make the words come to describe him, or record him, or explain him. It's too personal. He is mine. He always has been. I tuck him in and I kiss him and hold him and lay my cheek down on his impossibly soft, deliciously sweet, adorably chubby, perfect little baby cheek, and we look into each other's eyes, and he puts his chubby little arms around my neck and I blow raspberries into his neck, and we laugh and he squeals, and he twirls his chubby little fingers in my hair and pats my face, and he says, "I lub you. You lub me. We lub each udder." And my heart dies of the love and I say, "Yes, my Matthew Moo-moo. We love each other."