I love holding my son's hand. He's three. All four of his fingers wrapped around my first knuckle, the entire length of his thumb pressed gently into the pad of mine. I can feel the small bones in his wrist while he sings a tune of nonsense and gibberish before asking what "this" is. It's a ladder. He says "no it's not." It's a ladder. "No, it's not." He can be a terrible pain in the ass. I adore him.

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