Leah likes to say that she was never sure whether she could love a boy child like she loves Ava. As a boy, I understand. There is something sugar and spice and all that’s nice about Ava, as difficult as she can be sometimes. And Emmett’s different.
Of course, he has the advantage of being in the midst of three. And it still makes sense in his world to lean over in the middle of book time and plant a kiss on his mother’s hand and say, “I love you.” There is no pretense. As yet, no dissembling.
Which is no claim that he’s perfect. In the midst of his not-infrequent fits of pique, I find myself wondering what I’d think of a child I did not know who was behaving similarly. And I judge Emmett harshly.
Mostly, though, I find myself scooping him up off the floor and looking into his face as he tells me the story of his day. I look for myself in him as he reels off his tales of dinosaurs and classmates and snacks and the art projects he insists we keep safe for him. And I see myself, briefly. Amidst glimpses of his mother. But mostly I see Emmett. Sweet, earnest, talkative Emmett.