If It's Sunday, This Must be Wesley

We got to keep Wesley this weekend. I use the term "we" loosely, since Tom's part in keeping Wesley consists of chasing, playing, laughing and tickling. My part consists of feeding, diaper-changing and cleaning up. Well, that's not really fair, since Tom has kept him alone and done all the afore mentioned chores as well as playing with him. And done them annoyingly well. Even without me.

And I don't mind the chores part. In fact, I like them. I don't even mind (at least not terribly) changing a really poopy diaper. It's the one time I have him captured and can really see his beautiful, sweet face, his lovely, rounded tummy, his perfectly formed little feet and toes. And it's at times like this that I realize what a miracle really is.

I have a little bit of a problem with organized religion. Without igniting a firestorm of indignation, let me just say that it's a problem with any group that limits access to heaven to a select few. I believe strongly in heaven. And hell. And God. I just have my own versions. And I believe in miracles. You can talk all you want about a perfect sunrise, a magnificent red rose, a gorgeous beach. But I know what a miracle really is. It is two people making another perfectly formed human being. I don't understand the whole process, really. Well, OK, I understand THAT part of the process. But eggs and zygotes and hormones and cells dividing and all that stuff is still a little bit of a mystery to me.

All I know is, I know the exact spot on Wes's side to nibble to make him shriek with laughter. I know how to snuzzle my head back and forth under his chin until he gives up and his head falls back with ringing laughter and I can blurble on his neck. And the sound of that ringing, silvery laughter? That sound that makes anyone who hears it smile involuntarily?

That, my friends, is a miracle. And nobody can tell me otherwise.

He relaxes a bit after getting his

own milk from the fridge. The boy

is a genius. I'm serious. Somebody call MENSA.