One of my favorite things these days is this baby’s neck.
The back of his neck, specifically.
See, his big bald head, which makes his godmother call him Charlie Brown, is distinctively babyish. So are his round cheeks and roly-poly thighs and dimpled hands.
But that neck, man, does me in. It’s a little boy neck, and for weeks I’ve been seeing it from the comparatively distant vantage point of across the room as he sits and plays by himself for whole five minute stretches.
Remember this guy? This guy did not have a neck, to speak of. I really only encountered it those first early weeks to try to remove spit up from all its folds (oh, memories!). And a back of his neck. I’d only have seen that if the floppy guy had flopped disastrously.
But now, a handsome little neck. And, I imagine, basically the same little neck he’ll have as a sturdy toddler holding my hand and a bold five-year-old racing ahead and a chatty, buoyant eight-year-old coming home from a weekend at his grandparents’.
And this is just the saddest and most hopeful thing.