everyday perfection

I see the wind whipping across the grass outside, and I tell Isaiah, "It's a blustery day." His face blossoms into a perfect grin. I repeat myself then, several times, just to see that perfection again. He thinks I'm hilarious, and probably the best singer in the world, too. But then again, he smiles at the light in our study -- ignores me, even, just to look at that light.

He's utterly free of self-consciousness -- free to smile, free to cry, free to fart at will. For him, there's nothing better than being naked. Forget hunger, forget cold, forget tiredness -- nudity eliminates them all.

I'm convinced Isaiah is the most brilliant and physically talented baby that ever lived. He doesn't always perform for relatives, friends, and doctors, but it's okay. We know. I read books to Isaiah. Usually he bears with me, hyperventilating at each new page, convincing me he's a genius. Instead of burping against my chest, like a normal baby, Isaiah likes to stand up (and look at the light in the study). Of course, at two and a half months, he has no sense of balance, but his legs are as strong as a couple of horses.

(When he's not eating or burping,) Isaiah loves to lie against my arm or my chest, his face buried in the folds of my shirt. I usually move his head to keep him from suffocation. Obviously, security and comfort are more important to him than breathing.

For him, I give up reading and cleaning. For him, I give up writing this down the first time it crosses my mind; it'll never sound like it did the first time; it'll never be better than mediocre writing. Oh, well. It's best to lie on the couch, his tiny body nestled against mine. In his peacefulness, I believe along with him that all is well with the world.