I held him for a moment longer than usual, noticing how his legs had grown longer and his baby softness had slowly faded into something older.
By ten in the morning, the house looked like a party store had exploded across every surface. Bright streamers hung from the ceiling fan, and plastic dinosaur decorations covered the dining table. Music played from the kitchen, shifting between children’s songs and old pop tracks that my husband Andrew claimed he disliked but somehow knew completely.
I moved through the house checking every detail carefully because that habit had never left me after years working as an emergency nurse. Before Caleb was born, I had spent a decade in a trauma unit, and that part of my brain never truly turned off.
His peanut allergy had made that vigilance even sharper.
Andrew stepped behind me and rested his hands gently on my shoulders while I arranged utensils in straight lines.
“You are doing that nurse thing again,” he said with a soft laugh.
“I am doing the mother thing,” I replied without looking up.
“You already checked the emergency injector twice this morning,” he pointed out.
“Only twice, not three times,” I corrected calmly.