Falling

The amount of love and trust that my son gives me everyday is almost overwhelming. He knows that I will feed him, that I will give him kisses and cuddles, that I will play with him. And most of all that I will catch him.

He throws himself at me in the mornings, when we're lying in bed. I catch him in my arms and cuddle him close, only to have him struggle away so he can climb on Jym. Then he throws himself at me again, smiling the sweetest smile ever to grace a baby's face.

He climbs up to my shoulders when I'm standing in the bathroom, eager to get to the highest point. Then, with what I would swear is a maniacal glint in his eye, he flings himself to the side, grinning as my arms raise up to swing him around.

He sits on my lap, poking my nose and teeth. Then he slowly leans back, waiting this time, for me to grab his hands and hang him upside-down. Up and down, upright, upside-down. Over and over I catch him and keep him from smashing his precious little noggin on the hardwood that lies in wait.

And the joy on his face when I toss him above my head, the squeals of laughter as he flies through the air and again lands safely in my arms, it makes my heart feel as though it will burst out of my chest.

Except that it already has, and its crawling around the house, climbing on the furniture. All I can do is chase to keep up with my heart, to keep my baby boy safe. To make sure that he knows that he is loved. To catch him when he falls.