Aidan pie. That's what I want to bake.

I have this thing with baby feet. Which is weird because I absolutely detest grown-up feet - but what can I say? Baby feet are such soft, chewable little sausages, and all I want to do is squeeze their little toesies all day and all night.

And the most delicious feet of all belong to little Aidan. Could be because he hates me (his lip starts wobbling whenever I approach him, and sitting in my lap is more terrifying than a cage full of hungry velociraptors) and I quite admire that, since most babies succumb to my charms in mere seconds. Could be because he has look about him that is reminiscent of an eighty-year-old man; a little wise, a little serious, a whole lot cranky. Could be because his mother is one of the most fantastic people I know.

But I think it's because he's a man of so many expressions.

There's something special about seeing Aidan and his mama together. Mel makes it look so easy; every time I see them I come away yearning for little toesies of my own to nibble on, and little blue eyes of my making to look at me with so much wonder and glee and love. 

Then I get home, and the dog tries to jump straight in to my arms while I have hands full of bags, and ends up bouncing off the wall and crying, and I end up in a disheveled puddle on the ground swearing my head off and cursing every deity I can think of, and I remember, oh yeah, this is why I leave the child-rearing to professionals like Mel. Because my dog takes enough care and attention, and we're still working that out.

It must be amazing to be a mother. And it must be amazing to be Mel, a woman so fantastic she should be run through a juicer and bottled. A beautiful girl, beautiful mother, and, lucky for me, a hell of a talker. One day I will live on the same side of the city as Mel, and I will force her to become my best friend, and I will strap her to a chair and make her talk to me for days on end. 

In the meantime, she'll have to make do with Aidan. I'm sure it's tough.

He is so lovely. 

xoxo