Coming home

This morning in fact. We're going to make it to 34 weeks and what her doctors call the Promised Land.

My son and I took to the park this morning early to smooth out the wrinkles in his mood that woke up in him. We point at and name the Yellow Boat, the Big Dog, the Little Bird, and the Pretty Duck. And the Orange Fish. All dead on, by the way, basic and true. The world now has linguistic handles for him, and he's beginning to steer it around like a pro. We touch a Big Bus on the way home for emphasis. His face is almost too small for the smile that pops out of him. Almost.

The phone rings, and it's a go. Right now my son is scooping sand in the park with his fabulous baby sitter who might as well have the first name "He's Safe and Loved So Don't Worry About Anything At All." It's going to be 72 degrees today, and the trees in the park are threatening to unfurl leaves, the dogs look at each other in that special way (if you know what I mean). People are smiling all over--I swear--and I catch myself doing the same. He will remember the sun from today in his galloping mind and in his skin; he will kiss his mother--"Momma Hug"--tonight for the first time in two days. And our very little girl will soon sway her way home in a NYC taxi and in her mother, as it should be. No hurry, little one.

I'm off to get them both. People will wonder about me on the 4 train as it rattles and lurches up the East Side, what with my practically needing a largish bag to carry all my joy.

And the TV cameras were after a shot of Derek Jeter, the comely shortstop for the New York Yankees who was injured in the latest Red Sox game. The Yanks lost, by the way.

More later perhaps.