We sit like this nearly every day around 5 p.m. As the end of the day nears he needs a break but often won’t heed the call of his crib. Instead we sit together, quietly, both of us winding down.

Five months in, we have a lot of practice at this dance. I hold him facing me and slip him onto his right side. He tucks his right arm under my left and wraps it around my waist, then places his head snugly in the crook of my arm as I make space for him. His small mouth opens into an ‘o’ as he waits for a soother. I have one waiting; I give it to him and then pull him close.

We rock.

I sway slightly and he follows my lead, but I don’t talk and I don’t sing. This isn’t the time for whispered stories.

Occasionally he dozes, but today he just stares blankly out the window, his need to turn down the sensory dial so like my own.

He breathes quietly. I can feel his tummy pressing into mine – in and out, in and out.

Suck, suck, suck goes the soother. Then a pause. He’s watching shadows.

He doesn’t look at me, but he does stroke my chest. A recent development, he traces the line just below my collarbone, first in one direction, then the other, a rhythmic reassurance.

His hands are small and soft and chubby, his knuckles still just dimples.

Fully relaxed, he drops his soother and I can feel his breath on my left cheek. It smells like milk, and him.

I’m aware in these moments how precious this time is, how quickly the months will pass until one day we won’t fit just right anymore. He is part of me, this child. He is my own soft breath. He is the lump in my throat.

There are other things that make him who he is, of course – his wide, wide toothless smile and his giggle, laughing on the inhale. His love of stories. His enchantment with song.

But this is what I will most remember. Years from now I will feel his warmth and his weight on my arm. I will remember what it’s like to have a small tummy pressed to mine. I will remember his sweet breath and be glad we had this time, just the two of us, when he was small and we fit just so.

Like I did with Connor, this is an attempt to capture Ethan using descriptors of how I see him in this place and time based on a writing exercise from Use Your Words: A Writing Guide for Mothers*. (And, since I first wrote this, he’s stopped needing this cuddle, which makes me sad but also very glad I wrote about it.) As with Connor’s piece, I’ve deliberately chosen not to include an image in this post and have instead focused on the words. 

(*Same deal: Damn right that’s an affiliate link. I highly recommend this book for anyone wanting to work on their writing (whether a mother or not) and if you buy it I want the two pennies I’ll get from having steered you towards something fabulous.) 

He is four, almost five, and his world is all LEGO, all the time. The entire collection is in his room now, sorted into bins by colour (his dad’s strategy—one he attempts to thwart on a daily basis—for making it easier when asked to help find a certain piece).

This is where Connor is in his element.

And this is how I will always remember him in this time.

He builds from instruction booklets, he replicates from pictures he’s seen online, he creates from his own imagination. The age range on the box means nothing to him; he only occasionally needs help.

Our home rings with the sound of LEGO as he sorts through pieces – loud, rough, like gravel shifting. His fingers stir the bins, the pieces crashing and tumbling, creating a wave of noise. He finds what he’s looking for – a piece attached to another from a previous creation. He grips the locked pieces in his teeth (despite the many times I’ve asked him not to) and pulls determinedly. They click as they come apart.

Occasionally he will disappear, his whereabouts traceable by the rumble from beyond his walls. Hidden behind a closed door and surrounded by multi-coloured bricks, he hears nothing else and has to be called multiple times for dinner.

Sometimes I get asked to play, my role (or perhaps just presence) crucial for reasons that are not always expressed. Sometimes it’s to help find “cool” pieces. Sometimes it’s an invitation, a command: “Let’s get building!”

I’m never sure what he’s building until he’s done. His masterpieces, without fail, include details I could not have imagined.

It’s The Joker’s birthday today, so indicated by the inverted orange cone placed like a birthday hat atop the green hair of the small figure. Two flat, round pieces—formerly a part of an engine, possibly? Though I can’t identify them, he would know exactly what the pieces were and which set they came from—pressed together form a birthday cake, the flame pieces from a firefighting set standing in as candles.

He’s not just building; he’s creating. It’s all about the details. He adds pedals to a vehicle of his own design (this one has two brakes) and constructs a propellor for a helicopter when he can’t find one. Each window in each building is carefully placed. If he wants lights, he builds them. The door knobs always face the right way, the wheels are functional and if he can find a place for a chain or a net he will MacGyver it on.

Each character he adds to the scene has carefully chosen qualities – a policeman can’t have a “bad guy” face; rarely does a LEGO head go without an appropriate hat. Sometimes, as anyone with an imagination knows, a plainclothes hero needs a cape.

I get asked to build certain things sometimes, like a platform or a plane, but rarely get more than a few pieces in before the architect’s vision takes over, relegating me to observer and occasional part locator. I get annoyed by this, but only very slightly.

His instinct is to create; mine is to watch in awe.

This is an attempt to capture my son using descriptors of how I see him in this place and time based on a writing exercise from Use Your Words: A Writing Guide for Mothers*. I’ve deliberately chosen not to include an image in this post and have instead focused on the words. I’ll post Ethan’s tomorrow. 

(*Damn right that’s an affiliate link. I highly recommend this book for anyone wanting to work on their writing (whether a mother or not) and if you buy it I want the two pennies I’ll get from having steered you towards something fabulous.)