He is already long, like his father, with the sloping shoulders and the way his legs sometimes surprise me. I never remember them being as long as they are.
He cannot roll his Rs and so speaks with what might sound to some like a thick American accent.
His teeth are perfect and tiny and white and when he smiles wide, they seem too small for his gums. This is the part of his face I love the best.
That, and his eyes, which remind me of my mom’s and sister’s because they are to me as familiar as theirs. His eyes are eyes I knew before he had them; I have known those eyes my entire life, and I think none will ever be so familiar.
He smells just like his brother, when their hair needs washing.
He has the confidence of a boy so sure of himself I see no way life could ever let him down. He says things like: “Mommy, I am so much good at calcio. SO MUCH good!” and of course we all agree because, when we think about it, he is pretty good with a soccer ball.
In fact, he is good at most things. Anything he sets his mind to.
When I ask him if he’s sweet or spicy, he tells me spicy, every single time.
He is his own man, and yet, when he has a choice of what to drink with breakfast, milk or water, he says he’ll wait and see what Seven’s having, and then he’ll have the same.
He is an affectionate child, one who tells me he loves me every day, repeatedly and emphatically. He likes for me to do things for him, and demands I do them right away. He does not like to be kept waiting.
When he is tired or constricted and things don’t go his way, or sometimes even when they do, he screams and shouts and throws a temper tantrum. I dread taking him places in public where there will be any kind of space or time or noise constraints. He needs wide open spaces and freedom. He cannot stand to be held back.
He is a mirthful child. He is imaginative. He loves and plays with complete abandon.
I cannot wait to meet the man he will become.