Made with Love

Though I'm not of the Facebook generation — and am barely of Facebook — I know enough about its etiquette to know not to publish a photo of my new grandson before his mother does. But there's no law against grandmotherly gushing, so gush I will.

In short, the little guy is perfect. His dear little fingers and toes, his full head of dark hair, his skin that is so soft it's like you were touching nothing at all. I could have held him for hours, just looking, marveling at his dear face, his sudden yawns and stretches. 

A week ago, Claire and I had sat knee-to-knee going through her old baby clothes that I had washed and brought over. There was the little bib that spelled "C-L-A-I-R-E" in counted cross-stitch, the pink shirt that said "Special Delivery: Reston Hospital Maternity Center" — two girly things this boy baby may never wear. But plenty of gender-neutral duds as well, and those he will don, along with all his new clothes that at this point still swallow him up. 

I was struck yesterday, as I will be over and over again, of life's repeating itself in endless variation, of the love of his parents for him and for each other.  In another universe, with other rules, new life may spring fully formed from soil or wood or metal. I'm glad that in this universe it arrives in an impossibly tiny package, made with love.