Morning Coffee and a Baby Boy

I'm sitting at the table sipping coffee as I write this morning, my son resting in a snugli I'm wearing around my shoulders and chest, and I'm humming to him the theme song from the '80s film Crossing Delancey. He's talking to me and bouncing up and down on his little feet, trying to learn that his feet are his feet, and that his hands are his hands. He frequently swings his arms around and hits himself in the face with his little fist, and then looks as if he's considering who just hit him, and whether or not he should cry. His eyes are growing heavy now, but he's fighting sleep at this moment...one of the ways I know he is my son. I remember very distinctly fighting sleep or Ginger, our childhood babysitter, who wished for Caitlin and I to take our naps. Tate and I have been hanging out together this morning watching the finals of the 2007 French Open, where Raphael Nadal has just defeated Roger Federer in four sets. We're trying to let Monica get a few more winks of sleep this morning.
Tate's also been studying the sculptures of Deborah Butterfield with me, as I prepare to go to work this week and next to be ready for the NMA exhibition of her work, which begins next weekend. It seems fitting that Rags to Riches, the first filly to win the Belmont Stakes in 102 years, secured her win yesterday as Tate and I sat together looking at pictures of sculptures with the names shared with such famous race horses as Rondo and Ferdinand. Seeing such beautiful movement in those wonderful horses changes the way you consider Butterfield's sculpture, I think.
On Monday this week, we had a do-over for Mother's Day--Monica's first Mother's Day had been in the hospital with the boy, so we planned our own. Tate and I celebrated with a fun present for mommy and a drive to Truckee to introduce Tate to our friend Meg, and to have dinner at Jake's on the Lake in Tahoe City. It was a beautiful evening, and we enjoyed stuffed rainbow trout together. We watched the light grow long across Lake Tahoe as it illuminated the sails of a dozen dinghies racing in a regatta in the last of the day's winds.
Tate is thriving, and I now believe that his head could no longer be birthed, it's grown so much. His hands and feet appear larger to me, and he seems longer still than he had been just a week ago. He's now asleep against my chest, breathing rhythmically. Here's a cute shot of Tate and his mommy...