I ask my five-month-old sometimes, “Do you know I’m your Mommy?”

He’s growing. I gaze at him when he’s asleep and marvel at how quickly time flies, how blessed we’ve been. After six years, this little present we’ve been waiting for has finally arrived, filling our home with much joy, bringing our family together.

He’s sociable. Too sociable most times. I find comfort that he’s beginning to develop stranger anxiety. No, really. He’s a boy with a cheerful disposition, but stranger danger can’t be learned early enough. Color me protective.

He’s beautiful. A mix of the family’s characteristics. He has his grandfather’s ears. My eyes, my fingers. His Daddy’s face shape, built and lips. The rest is all baby, all him.

He’s smart. We read together now. Whether it’s Baby Einstein ABC’s or Anthony Bourdain’s newest book, we read together.  Baby fingers turning the page, baby mouth nibbling the book corners.

He’s perceptive. “Oh my boy, I missed you,” I would tell him as I scoop him up in my arms upon arriving home. And then he’d snuggle close to me. Press his face against the crook of my neck. Break into a smile I know is meant for only me. Then kick his feet in delight.

And then I’d ask him sometimes, “Do you know I’m your Mommy?”

And always, he would look at me and smile that smile for me, for only me.

I think he does.

I really think he does.