I’m missing my son tonight. It still feels strange to write the word “son.” Kato is such a nugget still, that it’s hard to think of him as anything but a baby, a shapeless wriggling mass of need. And love, of course. He is a snuggler, this one, not at all like his independent sister. Right now, I’d like to hold him in my arms, to see him smile, as he almost always does when you meet his eyes. There is a wellspring of joy in his core, and I hope he never loses it.

Here’s the subject of this ramble, a photo from the early days.

People say that Kato looks like Robbi, that Alden looks like me. Perhaps it’s true, but constitutionally, Kato is more like his dad, sunny and optimistic. Alden takes after her mother in spirit, more guarded and prone to see the possibility of a glass half empty. It’s funny how the genes collide.

This is not to say I don’t miss Alden, too. I do, of course. Each minute of each day. Here she is, my tiny one, so easy to throw in the air.

I catch her, of course, each time. It’s how I ensure she keeps coming back to me. There’s nothing like these babies in the world. No book, no prize, no accomplishment could ever hope to measure up. They’re the best thing I’ve ever done, the best thing that I will ever do.