Isaac needs held. He has since he was born. "Cry it out" was never an option, as he would rather have made himself sick crying than get tired to fall asleep. Worse, after one go of that, I felt awful about it and never tried it again. I found various baby slings and harnesses and he was attached to either Chris or I until he decided it was fun to walk. But even then he checks in, by crawling on our laps, giving a hug and kiss, then merrily getting back on his way.
His need for physical affection is probably equal to my natural disdain for it. And yet, since he's mine and I made him and he's perfect, I magically got over my discomfort. He could sit with me for hours (and has) and sleep on my arm as it falls asleep when I need to be doing a million other things; some long-hidden gene activates and I am content.
Isaac means "he will laugh." It's amazing to me how the name we picked months before he was born fits him so perfectly. He's such a wonderful, happy little boy. I'm happy just to see his smiling face, never mind what is going on in my life that he couldn't possibly understand. He is silly without really trying, yet knows exactly how to make others laugh when he wants to be the center of attention.
Isaac is my baby. Yes, he's actually my youngest, but even when he grows up, even if he becomes a big brother someday, even if I had 10 more kids and he actually wound up being one of my oldest children, he would still be my baby.
Happy birthday, little man.