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     I saw my son holding onto his daddy's thumb the other day.  Suddenly I was three years ahead watching him grip his first crayons; then seven years ahead, watching his daddy show him how to grip the baseball for a game of catch; then I was 16 years ahead, watching his hands grip the steering wheel of the beater we allowed him to drive to school.  And then I was 18 years from now, watching him shake his daddy's hand as he went off into the vast bright future. 

     It takes so long, those nine months.  You wait and wait and wait for the first kicks, and the first rolls.  Then the day comes when you finally get to meet that little squirmer you've loved since the first moment the test was positive and time decides to fly.  The first coos turn into the first smiles turn into the first laughs.  There's just no better feeling than when that little hand grabs a hold of your finger and a smile cracks across that chubby-cheeked face. 

     I am as excited to watch my son grow as I am to enjoy him every day.  But I feel his changes everyday.  His body is a bit heavier, his footies are stretched just a little tighter, his coos are a little bit more recognizable, and his smiles grow brighter everyday. 

      Nothing beats this whole "mommy" thing.  It's an amazing privilege that I am so thankful I get to experience.  As these moments quickly become memories, I feel compelled to take an obscene number of pictures.  So that one day, when he holds his own baby's hand in his he can see the day when he held his daddy's thumb.