Pax Matutinus

I sit this morning drinking my tea with N on my lap. He is curled up, sleepy and snuggling, his puppy-dog breath a far cry from the toothpaste mint of the previous evening. I sit there and hold him and massage his back and shoulders and give his wild hair an occasional gentle tussle. He keeps his head down, buried into my chest and I can feel him growing as he sits there. His bones quietly stretching and his frame taking on a coating of muscle one thin layer at a time. He fits curled up on my lap, but just barely. What was once a whisper of weight on my lap is now substantial and accruing, gaining momentum and closing the gap with the loud weight of years on my shoulders. His knees and elbows now poke out at awkward angles; I'm cradling a goat kid or a foal. I make a mental note to check his paws - just how big will this puppy get? L will still sit quietly on my lap, but when she does it's like holding a St. Bernard. He sits there silently. He hasn't asked for any tea. He hasn't asked for anything. But I know he's quietly waiting for me to relinquish control of the computer I am working on. He's discovered the game of Hearts and is monomaniacal in his pursuit of it. He will play all four hands, assigning one to each family member, and his squeal of delight when he sticks Daddy with the Queen of Spades can be heard throughout the house. But for now patience endures and he sits there warmly and passively. I half whisper what a special boy he is. He raises his head just enough to reply "I know" without the slightest trace of vanity. As I rub his pajamaed back he wiggles a bit to get my hand to just the right spot. I sit with him there for the next thirty-odd years, then I get up and relinquish the computer.