My son.

You smell like a boy.
Not a baby, not a little boy.
But a real, stinky, sweaty boy.

Your hands are covered in dirt and grim.
Your cheeks are dusty,
Except for the tear tracks left from a now-forgotten playground tragedy.

It’s time for naps.
You’ve outgrown naps, but you still “rest”.
But today? Today you ask me to hold you.
How can I say no to that?

So we crawl into bed.
And I cradle both you and your sister in my arms.
And I realize that I am the luckiest person in the world.

You take your grimy, dirty hands and rub them across my cheeks.
You flutter your fingers over my closed eyelids
Just like I’ve done to you a thousand times.

And I completely don’t care about how dirty your hands are.
Or how my precious pillow is probably going to stink now.
All I think is, “I love you.”

And then I think, “I almost chose to check my email.”
I’m glad I didn’t.
The world can wait.