Some mornings I get Milan out of his crib. Normally that’s Darian’s job, because, well, it just is. But sometimes it’s me. And I pick him up. And for a brief moment (after I’ve wrangled him out of his blankets and watched him toss a few toys around) he presses his cheek against mine, and I hold his soft little body tight, and I close my eyes, and relish his warmth for as long as he’ll let me.

And then he begins to squiggle and squirm and goes off into his day as the hyperactive little demon he is.

But those moments, oh those few moments. They last for ever.