Kissing Bandit

Late this afternoon, after dropping Cass off at his very first violin lesson, I was walking down the street with Ollie in my arms. He pressed his body against my chest, like he was recoiling from the spurt of student activity on the sidewalks, one of his arms wrapped tightly around my neck. I haven't felt like this since I wore him in the sling for the first four months of his life. We walked like this for 20 minutes, my arms burning as I shifted his weight from one to the other. It's a windy fall day, and his fine blond hair blows in my face the entire time. He buries his face in my neck, grazing any skin he can find with his lips while making kissing sounds. I could have walked for miles.

Later Ryan suggests we cut his hair--that little curl that hangs halfway down his back when it's wet and straight. I tell him I will do it this weekend.

The thing I remember most vividly about Cass starting preschool is his dramatic, highly emotional coming-home routine. Ryan would pick him up at noon and drop him off at home, but before we could have lunch or talk or play, Cass needed to sit beside me on the couch for a good 20 minutes, frantically holding me close, pursing his lips to mine. These days, he begs to stay at school longer.

Ollie has been waking up early lately, while Cass (uncharacteristically) sleeps in. Ollie has always had to share morning cuddles with his early-rising brother, but in Cass' absence, Ollie has fine-tuned a new routine: lay beside me; snuggle in as close as possible, then snuggle in some more; drape little arm over my chest; wiggle to fill in any empty spaces between us; nuzzle head underneath chin; kiss neck, cheeks, lips, forehead; repeat. I often nod off, knowing I should wake Cass up for school. But I can't. I know how quickly these things change. First the haircut, then the violin. And soon, neither one of my boys will want to kiss their mother.