His hair is soft, fine and undecided.
The light at any given point dictates the hue.
His eyes are blue, sparkling with the promise of trouble.
A cliche – windows to the soul – those baby blues perfectly convey his feelings.
Especially as big droplets well and flow down his face, while his eyes implore me to fix it, whatever it is.
But also especially when he is cooking up something new that is sure to raise my eyebrows and most probably my voice.
His entire face smiles. Or cries. No part of his pixie-chinned head is left behind when he laughs.
He laughs at me a lot. When he is sent to time out. When he is jumping on me, or a sibling, or a toy.
When he knows he is toeing the line of my patience.
He has a small scar on his forehead from a scrap with his twin. I like to kiss it when I am sad.
He sleeps well. Or terribly. He never wakes once – it’s either all night wakings or out like a light.
He snores. Soft snores when he is well. Deafening when he is ill.
He talks. A lot. Outgoing. Loud. Unless he is playing coy with a pretty girl.
He is always trying to make people smile. A clown. A friend.
He is strong. So strong. He can fight off adult men and lift toys bigger than he is.
But he is also small. Smaller than his twin. Small enough to pass for a one year old. The weight his big sister was at 10 months old.
And he is fragile. Precious. In need of a little more care.
And I forget, sometimes. The care he needs. Forget because he is so strong. So vital. Energetically mischievous. I forget about his heart, his asthma.
Until he gets the same illness that both his siblings have had in the past 2-3 weeks and all of a sudden it’s not a case of antibiotics and paracetamol and ibuprofen.
It’s pain stop night and ultra antibiotics and fluid monitoring, talking about sending and admitting him to a bigger hospital and the catch all, cover all: “bring him in if you are concerned AT ALL.”
And I always wonder how concerned I should be.
Because this boy does nothing by halves. Nothing in moderation.
He is a man of extremes.