It has been two months since little Finnegan was born—two months since I became a grandfather for the first time. It only just occurred to me that I have said very little about this new reality, this new stage of life, this new member of our family.
I think I figured out why: I almost don’t know how to think or how to feel about him. I almost don’t know how to understand or interpret my love for him in its extent, its degree, its intensity. I am completely enamored with him. Enraptured. Besotted. Very nearly undone.
I treasure every moment we have together and take him into my arms at every available opportunity. I linger over every photograph his parents send to me. I ooh and ahh over his every infantile accomplishment, I feel pride when he does something as inconsequential as gain a couple more ounces, and I laugh with joy when he cracks even the least smile. I can’t stop staring at him when I’m with him or thinking about him when I’m not. He is an absolute wonder, a complete marvel, a source of such great pride and joy.
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