hopeless renderings.

We found ourselves piled on the couch again last night.

It’s become a before-bedtime ritual for the Little Man, and I think for Mama and Daddy as well.  The clock strikes 6:52, and Baby starts to rub his eyes, so we push our dinner plates to the side, popping salted lime chunks of avocado in our mouths in a to-go effort.  We let the taco dishes be, because, well, there will always be more dishes for washing, but there won’t always be an eager mine before us.

I take one end of the couch, my legs like bowling bumpers hanging over the edge; hoisting Cancan over his lap, the HBH takes the other end, our feet kissing in the middle.  And then we just let Baby choose his own adventure.  

He’s like this hyper-energetic, miniature version of a WWF wrestler, racing on all fours from  one end of the couch to the other, and then standing up all-wobbling legged, rocking and walking and grinning that slaying smile, denting the cushions.  He sees the sunny Palermo and Capri pictures hanging beyond the cushions, just within reach, and he lunges for them.

Of course he lunges for the Cost Plus World Market beauties.

And, of course, I let out this elongated “…no-o-oooooooo, Cancan,” because Mama and Daddy are still figuring out what it means to set boundaries and discipline a 13-month old.

I try to put on my stern face, for just 2.5 seconds, catching his eyes, letting him know that I’m serious, I mean business – but it’s no use.  His cuteness overwhelms me, and he knows that he’s captured my heart, so he joins in the rousing chorus of “…no-o-oooooooo” by moving his head horizontally from side to side, smile growing with each shake.

I’m slain.  I’m toast.  I’m a crispy egg fried on the sidewalk in 100 degree temperatures.

But slowly, slowly, he moves his hands from the print, reaching toward me.  And then, his professional wrestler-self back in the arena, he dive-bombs towards me, laughing the most perfect, incandescent mini-man giggle you’ve ever heard.

We are all now dying.  We’re soaking up the perfection of this moment, and we’re entering into its glory, to the little miracle of life that our son is.

And then we’re realizing that we’re hopeless – absolutely hopeless – when it comes to setting boundaries and disciplining and “not letting the couch be a play arena,” because he keeps going back to the Palermo picture, hands reaching upward, waiting for my “…no-o-oooooooo” before lunging head-first again.

And again and again and again.

I guess that’s what being a parent is: it’s about entering into the moment, and laughing and giggling in marveling wonder, while rendering your heart hopeless to this little creature that is yours.  

This little mine.  

Thanks be to God.

What about you?  How have you entered into that perfection-filled moment?  How has your heart been captured?

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