My godchild sends me pictures of her two sons, both babies, both beautiful. The older one, about 18 months old, stares out at me from a vaguely familiar face. It’s definitely an amalgamation of mom and dad but the mom part is what I see. Every time I look at his picture I see a beautiful little girl with a smile that lit her face up every time it appeared, a little girl who thought I was her fairy godmother, a little girl who took my hand and helped me learn all over again about the sheer fun of twirling fast in a circle while singing “all fall down”, I’m way too old and on way too many blood pressure medications for that kind of twirling now. But every time I look at her sons and remember the little girl I first fell so much in love with, I find myself smiling and feeling younger than my years would suggest. I can’t wait to see those boys and give those beautiful faces all the hugs and kisses they deserve. Because I know now from experience that before I can turn around, they’ll be young men who will only grudgingly let the funny smelling old lady near them.