These are bad photos–blurry, poorly lit. They are memories.
One day Anselm happened on Jeremy and I in the Colloquium, discussing renovation things.
His eyes were still puffy from sleep. He is frequently the first of the children to come out and find us when they wake.
He is four.
He still speaks with a lisp.
He is irrepressibly cheerful.
His hair is untamable. I ought to cut it; I can’t bring myself to.
He prefaces most statements with “HEY GUYS, I HAVE (insert relevant adjective) NEWS.”
He is part mischief, part irrepressible good humor, part cuddle bug.
He just wants to be BIG like his big brothers.
He just wants to tell me I’m pretty.
He just wants a hug.
“Hey Mom, I fell down and hurt myself and I DIDN’T CRY!” This is a big deal.
This is to remember Anselm, age four.