My baby is an autumn baby.
His hair is the color of straw, shining and sweet-smelling. His eyes are the color of the sky under which he was born--not the pale, hopeful blue of spring or the rich, lazy blue of summer, but a deep cobalt, shot through with pewter, pale storm clouds of grey gathering around the pupils. When he smiles, which is often, the skin around those eyes and the button nose below them crinkle. He has his mama's grin.
My baby is not ahead, or…Continue