In the loving embrace of parents.
Heavy breathing through slightly blocked nose.
Thrusting and scratching faces, expressions of intent.
A yawning mother. Screeching, and a symphony of similar sounds.
Soon he will be playing om the ground, crawling, almost walking,
But for now he is the king of the mountains.
Climbing over faces, a myriad of sweet smells,
mummy tiger half asleep, depleted by the nights many feeds,
daddy so proud when he huffs and he puffs and stands himself up,
with another screech and lots of breathing, sometimes frustrated, sometimes pleased.
Daddy runs to the other room and fires up his laptop, writing memories with squinted eyes.
This is a morning unlike any other, this is the morning today.
We are proud mountains, with a jet-boy farting as he flies above.