As dinner crackles on the stove (I’m prone to forgetting about it until the burning smell reaches my nose as I write), my son sits next to me gazing at a new Clone Wars episode on the laptop. A soft white knitted blanket is draped over only his knees; his small but rapidly growing feet are exposed and he twirls his toes in a rhythm heard by him alone. He holds his head in his hands, his hair is blonde, unruly, wavy. He is beyond beautiful, exasperating. Every day I pray that I’m doing right by him, that he’ll have very little to complain to his future wife or husband about, that his childhood memories are filled with the same sort of magic, charm, wonderment, and peace that I was lucky enough to have.