My three-week-old grandson is a wonderful combination of juiciness, neediness, and spunk. Irresistibly cute, his magnetic powers draw you constantly to cuddle — in spite of all the leakage. He has surprising wrestling skills on the changing table, and when he grips your finger in the process, you’re down for the count.
Tiny eyelashes, slightly tipped up nose, plump cheeks, and pouty lips dance beneath a forehead that communicates his emotional temperature like a sensitive thermostat. Adult routines around him are all conforming to the shape of his desires without protest. He is in charge, as it should be.
Each week he grows. Eyes focusing longer on objects he sees; tiny stomach ever expanding to hold more nourishment; arms stretching out the sleeves of the once too large onesie; ever expanding coo-ological vocabulary. We marvel at his daily achievements, sensing that the cosmos is realigning itself to make room for his presence.
How surprised I am to discover how much more advanced he is than the small offspring of all the other grandfathers I know, but the truth is obvious.
What will the next three weeks bring? The possibilities are breathtaking.
NOTE: This is a reissue of a post from April 12, 2025, that somehow disappeared from my blog feed.
An Ever-Flowing Stream 