Domestic Bliss Report

Motherhood is hard work. If we don't stick together, we'll all fall apart.

Thursday, December 06, 2007

On Louis' first portrait

I've been mulling it as I study the image. His face. Why is it so fascinating? Why isn't the previous image of his feet, or the details of his boy parts, or his profile? They don't even compare.

Because it's his face. Baby feet are all cute and I recognize they're all unique, but honestly I probably couldn't tell them apart. Baby hands, the same way. Ears, clean baby bottoms, too. If I were to see pictures of each of these from my kids at the same age, I doubt I could tell whose fingers or toes were whose.

But their faces? Another matter entirely. While an argument could be made that all newborns resemble Winston Churchill, it doesn't take long for them to distinguish themselves. Their faces are each unique.

It's his face I'll study as he nurses, that I'll touch while he sleeps, that I'll desperately try to memorize during those early hazy days. It's his face I'll smile at when I read his expression, that I'll see across the table, that I'll photograph more than any other part of him.

So we have it. I could see his face.



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