Thomas Harry is ten months old. Well, two days ago. He enjoys being naked, pulling his sister's hair and playing the maracas. Both literally and figuratively. He is a fast crawler, and chases both the dog and his big sister. He also likes appropriating abandoned juice cups. His one grey eye and one brown eye have morphed into this amazing greyish brown color. He's got really cute boobies, as Beatrice points out. And he has eight teeth. He is 26.5 pounds, 30 inches and has the head circumference of a two year old. In our house, we say that the boy leads with his head. It is his form of affection to head butt your nose like some kind of football hooligan. He is very good at throwing a ball directly to you.
He is the Thornado, bringing a flurry of joy and overturned trucks and play kitchens, where ever he crawls. I didn't imagine that when we were pregnant. I was caught in this swirl of negativity, fear and inactive panic. How hard it will be. How jealous Beezus might get. How sick/hurt/damaged he might end up. How we don't have enough bedrooms on the same floor. How my love seemed not to be boundless. And then he was here, and he slipped into our lives like he's always been there. And he makes us laugh until we cannot breathe. And my love for him bottomless and encompassing and absolutely terrifying.
Ten months later, Beatrice doesn't remember a time before Thomas was here or a time when Lucy wasn't dead. And I think that is it. Lucy has also found her place in our family too. She is in every list we make about the most beautiful babies. She is in the invisible sister brigade that marches through the kitchen with pots and pans. She is in the rainbow we draw. She is the other baby in our family. She is the little sister. Perpetually, the little sister.