He's about four feet tall, weighs slightly more than fifty pounds, and is at the limit of what can be referred to as comfortable when I cradle him as I did seven years ago.
But, I can still feel my son relax in my arms, his head in the crook of my elbow, as I carry him downstairs to his bedroom.
My neighbors' new son is nearly one month old. Holding him the other day naturally brought back memories of my own children at that delicate stage: soft bones, unfocused eyes, twitching muscles, and a steady flow of warmth radiating through his onesie. 
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After seven years, my son has begun to assert his individuality. With more frequency he insists on creating – and seeing through to completion - projects of his own. His has filled a box with his own office supplies: Post-Its, a stapler, hole puncher, pencils, pens, erasers, sticky tack, and a plethora of other provisions. He has become more insistent and objectionable concerning what he should be allowed to hoard, and what he no longer has any use for.
He is no longer memorized by pre-school programming; there is no more mystery to behold in mundane objects such as coffee percolators and garage door openers.
He's growing up.
But, as the day ends and his courage is weakened by fatigue, he expresses only a muted defiance, in the form of a petulant whimper , when I scoop him up like a baby to carry him to bed.
I believe this is a metaphor for us all. We grow brave and distant because the adult world necessitates it. But we all have softness to our bones, eyes which become unfocused, muscles which ache and twitch, and we will radiate warmth when someone takes the time to support our heavy heads.
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KennyBodanis.com 
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