Last night, Rohan fell asleep frogged up on me as we danced by the Christmas tree. I asked my husband to take a picture with the cell phone's camera so as not to wake my sleeping baby.
These moments are few and far between with a very active 21 month old boy, so I really treasure them when they happen. His little body was so warm and cuddly, and I've noticed since having kids that no other baby will ever fit as perfectly against you as your own will.
This picture, of course, belies the fact that just prior to this he threw an epic tantrum. It was of the variety that involved me picking him up because he asked to get up and then him spending about 10 minutes flopping like a dying fish on the creekbed while turning bright red, crying, and repeatedly screaming while trying to climb out of my embrace. I eventually got him to calm enough to ask nicely to get down and agree to stop screaming (if my kids throw a tantrum I tend to ignore it as any attention at this age is positive attention, but in this case, he threw the tantrum while I was already holding him and was yelling at me to put him down, so I wanted to keep holding him until I could have him calm down and ask me nicely before I would put him down) (and, I'm a little stubborn sometimes. Just like him.). Not 35 seconds after that happened and I set him down, he came over, begged for "Uppy!", and fell asleep in my arms.
But you know what? When I'm 80 and admiring my grandchildren and (maybe) great grandchildren being held and loved on by their parents, I won't remember that tantrum. I will remember the way it felt to slow dance by the Christmas tree and they way he buried his blonde head just so under my chin.