Mr. Lucky Junior. My baby. My most prized possession. Pushing him out was more extreme than skydiving. There he was, all pink, wet and cone shaped on top, and marvelously beautiful—marvelously alive. He’s the piece of me that tugs on all my heartstrings, and brings a lump to my throat. He’s so soft, so adorable, so inquisitive, so tenderhearted—his gaze grabs my sensibilities. He stretches proud and nonchalant like a lion king. When he cries it is immediate, desperate and spirited. He softly moves his fingers like maybe a poet or a thinker would. His eyes are pure and filled with wonder, lapping up this amazing world. His hair is fuzzy and his skin is as soft as morning time. The way he is nourished at my breast is ultra beautiful to me. He’s not me and he’s not Daddy. He makes up his own mind when he will bellow and when he will melt me with a smile. He’s all miracle.