Ev'wy Iddy Biddy Pawt

I'm not much of a baby person; never was. I don't get all gushy and woozy at the sight of a baby, although I don't really have anything against babies personally (obviously, as I've had three of them - four, if you count Handyman).

However, my baby . . . . ahhhhhhhhhh. This is perfectly understandable, of course, as my baby is quite simply the best baby ever born in the history of babies being born. (Do I sense raised eyebrows and skepticism here? Well, it's my blog, so pfffftttt!)
I love my baby's fat rolls. It's so not fair. Why are fat rolls on a baby cute when mine are anything but? Don't answer that.
I love my baby's eyes. J'aime tes yeux, mon bebe! (See, all that vocal training in foreign languages pays off. I can make an idiot out of myself in French as well as English).
His ears, too. His ears stick out in an adorably dorky sort of way.
*Sigh* And then those fingers! Ooo la la, those tiny hands!
The tongue is quite charming, too. He usually sticks it out for an hour or so after nursing. I think it's because his innards are so stuffed that there's not enough room for his tongue - - until he poops. That's not quite so charming.

I just love his little button nose. I'm sure that when he grows up his nose might be considered unfortunate, but I think it's sweet.
Those lips! Those little drool bubbles of cuteness!

My favorite thing of all, however, has to be the feet; those little feet that will someday carry him far away from me, and hopefully bring him back. The feet that will cover ground I never will, and take him to unimaginable places.

So, I cover his feet with socks and kisses. The socks keep his feet warm, the kisses warm his heart. Besides, he'll soon outgrow my hand-knitted socks.

Kisses always fit.