Modest Goddess

There's a simple joy in allowing my son to hold my hand as he falls asleep, in being the one whose voice can comfort him when he cries at night. When he wakes up and squalls, or when he makes his little happy shouts when his aunts and uncles are walking him around, I think of it as a sort of echolocation. He's sending out signals, seeing what they bounce off of, trying to figure out what's out there, make a connection.

The other day, Dad said to him, "You have a fat roll on your pinkie! How is that possible?" And a few days later, "I know what your Indian name would be. Fat Wrist." (We've been reading a lot of Larry McMurtry lately.)