His body slumps over my shoulder, a soft comma with a bobbing head. Sometimes when he tosses about, I catch a glimpse of the stork bite at the back of his neck. Six little red patches, branding him an infant. A reminder and a warning: I’m an un-adult. Treat me with care.
He sucks his thumb with seriousness and focus, like an important man solving an important problem.
When he sleeps, his arms splay out, balancing his too-large head between. His legs rest in frog position. He looks like a caricature of a ballet dancer doing a grand plie. At night, I peer into his crib just before I turn in myself, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness so that I can observe his silent form for a minute.
His hands are like quilted satin pillows, soft and lined deeply without being wrinkled. His fingers are pointed lozenges, both clumsily fat and delicate at the same time. When he drinks, they flutter around with all the nuanced expression of a dancer, touching his face, grabbing his shirt, scratching his tummy. He emerged from birth like he was wearing large blue mitts, but now the rest of his body has caught up.
He sits like a fat uncle on the MRT train, chin sinking towards his potbelly.
When I place him on my stomach, he looks at me cautiously, until I make a silly noise. Then the outer corners of his eyes soften and droop downwards a split second before he smiles. I know now that cheeky grins are nature, not nurture.
He says “ooh” and “el-kuh” in his little baby voice, and I dread the day that he will plead with me and I will have to say no.