We call to each other, and it sounds like reuniting lovers, like we should be running toward each other in an idyllic sunlit field with our arms outstretched:
"Mama!"
"Isaac!"
"Mama!"
"Isaac!"
Except there's no reunion and no field. Who needs 'em? When this scene played out most recently, we were just sitting side-by-side on the couch in our pajamas when Izzy suddenly climbed into my lap, threw his arms around my neck, and ardently said my name. At times like this, he appears to be overcome by love. I feel the same, except I feel it nearly all the time.
This love affair includes Craig, too. Tonight as they read bedtime stories I overheard Craig tell Isaac, "You melt my heart." (I'm not sure what inspired it.) And at least once each day Craig says with formal solemnity to me, "I love him." He usually makes this statement after we've recounted some everyday-yet-special moment one of us shared with Isaac -- how he looked up and said "bye-bye" to a flock of geese flying south; how he said "mmnn!" when Craig showed him the full moon; how he stroked my hair as he fell asleep in my arms.
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