3.

it's 4 a.m. your lamp is on because you seem to sleep better that way. your room smells of a mix between your babyness and the diaper i changed two hours ago and have yet to wrap up. your fussing fills the air. i reach the side of your crib, and your cries turn to grins. i sit in the green chair to feed you. you hungrily latch. one of your hands is wrapped around your food source as if you're holding a bottle. a perfect fit for your chubby wrists and fingers. your other hand is around my side, your fingers press into my skin to your own little rhythm. your ever-growing legs and feet are tucked underneath you. you are alert and eating for several minutes. you stare intently at me. then you slow to instinctive sucking as your eyes grow heavy. you are asleep. i rock you. i don't want to get up. finally, i do. your body stiffens for a moment as i stand up. then you are limp again in my arms. i lay you gently in your bed, pausing a moment to admire your perfection. you are three months old, grayson. you are my son. and i love you so much it hurts.