Nine

It's official.
Little Stone Sparrow has been his own air-breathing, milk drinking, laughing, crying, smiling, earth-dwelling person for longer than we were one.
There are still times when I feel a little *gurgle* and I instinctively press my hand to my middle, waiting to feel the baby move.
I guess our hearts remember for longer than our heads.
Sometimes I wish he was still inside. Safe and sound.
All mine.
Not crawling around the living room looking for live wires.
Not gagging on the cheerio/receipt/cap to my lipstick that he found on the floor.
Not exposed to the UV rays and cigarettes and television and politicians that I worry worry WORRY are out to get him.
Not puking on my cashmere sweater.

I would miss seeing those chubby wrists, though. So, yeah.
I think we'll keep him.