I watch ‘I love daddy,’

rise and fall for the umpteenth time on your torso,

caress Michelin’s limbs jutting out of the onesie pulled firm across your diapered butt.

I count fingers and toes as if extra digits have sprouted since the last math. 

Folklore says your smile is caused by a spider—science says it’s the REM phase;

it’s the sand person blowing raspberries in your navel.