mon secret

At times like this, late at night, with a contented Griffin sleeping on my lap or sighing on my shoulder after a drowsy middle-of-the-night nursing session, I speak to him in English. Sweet baby. My sweet, sweet boy. I stroke his head. You're beautiful. You drive me crazy and I love you like crazy. I drink in his milky scent, his baby shampoo hair. Sweet, beautiful boy.

I have to say this, like an incantation, a prayer, a promise, aloud, in English, not to him, but to me, just for me to hear while I hold my splendid son.