My littlest love. He proudly presented this portrait to me this evening. He is a constant artist. The muse visits him often, art pouring from him at voracious pace. Our whole home is adorned with his creations. He is messy, fast. Creates, moves on. Markers left uncapped, crayons broken and discarded in random sofa crevices and Hess truck trunks, or stuffed in tissue boxes or our utensils drawer. He lives for Scotch tape and cardboard boxes, fashioning leprechaun traps and cat houses, laptop computers and beaver masks. We can’t keep up with the amount of paper he goes through. His room is wallpapered with his ideas. I love that he sees the best version of me: perfectly coiffed top knot, blue-eyed and smiling, sporting a “mama” tee, barefoot. Arms wide open. This is how he sees his mama. I need to work on seeing myself this way. Because to him, I am exactly what he needs. To him, I am perfect.