He picked out little yellow socks at Target and held them up to me like they were treasure. He named my belly “Baby Bean” before we even knew the baby’s sex.
When the ultrasound tech told us it was a girl, he clapped so hard people out in the hallway turned to look.
“My sister,” he kept saying. “My sister is in there.”
He told his kindergarten teacher he was going to be “the best big brother in the whole state.” He said state because apparently the world felt too small.
Even at the hospital, he couldn’t get enough of her. He stood on a chair beside my bed, one hand resting on the rail, gazing down at her pink face like she was the most important person he’d ever laid eyes on. Beds
“She’s tiny,” he whispered.
My husband, Daniel, laughed. “Most newborns are.”
Max frowned at him. “No, Dad. I mean tiny tiny. Like if I sneeze wrong, she’ll fly away.”
Then he leaned close to her and said, very solemnly, “I’m your big brother. I got you.”
I cried right there in that hospital bed.
