One by one, he hugged them.
Daddy, then Russell, then Blair, then Thomas.
Again and again, I called out the names of his father and three siblings and the little boy paused and glanced and turned his blond head in the direction of each one.
In his lopsided signature gate, he crossed the old red rug and hurled his small self into each of their arms and grinned with his eyes as much as his perfect mouth.
“Yah, Amos,” he would cheer for himself and we would echo his words, jubilant for the four year old boy who had not only learned to give a hug, but even better…
“He’s finally figured us all out,” my oldest son said, unspilt tears shining in the matching sea blue eyes.
He had. He knew them. He had known me from the very beginning, but that’s how it is with the mamas of extra special little people.
Each of them had given their whole hearts to the boy named Amos and finally, after four years, he had offered a token of reciprocity.
The gift of love, the gift of acknowledgement, the gift of a name and the gift of a family, a family who sat on the edge of their seats and shouted and cheered for the boy who ran into those welcoming arms.
The joy is all around us, amidst the tides of life that threaten to sweep us away, the currents of love run even deeper.