Isaac is in a morning melancholy, in part because we all have various viruses that make us sluggish and grumpy. When Isaac is melancholy, he holds his little stuffed lamb close, and rubs its soft paw on his face. “Isaac,” I ask him, “will you please hold Lamby by his belly instead of his arm?” Isaac has already torn Lamby’s arm off twice. This is because he loves Lamby. “When you have a baby,” I ask him, “are you going to carry him around by the arm?”
Isaac thinks for a moment. I don’t know whether this is good or bad. “No,” he offers, tentatively, as if the answer is not altogether clear, as if his mother and I routinely cart baby Isaiah around by the elbow. I love Isaac, but I’m hoping one of the other children takes care of us in our old age.
