Ambrose’s cheeks have been chapped this last week. These cheeks have already been a delight in my life, but these cheeks in their chapped state have now become a sheer pleasure.
They are now not only large and round and soft, but also pink. Two plums of the perfect ripeness.
I get to rub baby lotion on them. The lotion comes in a pink bottle that fascinates Ambrose, so he gets in a good stare while I squeeze a drop onto my index finger. It’s a delicate lotion and it feels so right to be putting it on his sweet skin. (When he feels the finger on his cheek he goes rooting around for it, wanting very much to chomp on it with his pink gums.)
When it’s over — oh! When it’s over! — I get to pick up his substantial self and stick my nose into his cheek, his large and pink and yummy-smelling cheek. I rub my nose around the softness. And hear his little breathings and watch his little gaze. (He stares, interested, at the window while I do this. His personal bubble is underdeveloped.)
When the Lord called children a blessing, I’m sure He was referring to their ontology. They are a blessing. The whole of them is. I live with a blessing that squirms and sighs and squeaks and sleeps — the best kind of blessing.
A blessing with pink chapped cheeks.