As Kelly and I danced, painfully working our way through the ‘Electric Slide’, Ian was sprawled in my arms, dead to the world.
This time last year, Kelly, Ian and I were still recovering from the most tiring night of our lives.
…He doesn’t knock them off, or toss them over his shoulder. He carefully grasps them, lifts them into the air, and slams them to the carpet.
Misdirected right hooks are a thing of the past. Head-butts are still a significant danger.
His clothes were a magician’s scarf; an endless tangle of bits of clothing, until all that’s left is David Copperfield in his underwear.
Suddenly it felt as if the kid next door had come over to play and found the Lite-Brite I’d left, neglected, at the bottom of my closet.
They should have sent us home from the hospital with handi-wipes. Or at least ponchos.
Rising above Ian’s crib is a friendly, yellow and orange piebald sun. Below him, across rolling green hills, marches a troupe of cavorting ladybugs, ants, and butterflies. They follow a path from Ian’s window, which winds along his crib and trails behind his changing table. Leading this band of merry arthropods is a bright red ladybug…