Last week in the middle of a Vermont vacation featuring three mountain climbs and multiple dips in the pool, I woke up with my little baby boy in my arms to find him smiling at me. It was the morning that he turned six weeks old, and his first smiles were smush-faced and bleary-eyed and messy in the way that they broadly spread from cheek to cheek; early, precious smiles that I know to treasure. Soon his smiles will be a little more poised, but that day he just opened his mouth in huge radiant joy and beamed light right at me. My husband was out climbing the Notch on his bike and my daughter was asleep at that dark 6am hour, so it was just us in that little log cabin. I've tried since then to get everyone in the family to catch some of that smile outpouring, but I take some time to revel in those smiles every day. Parenthood is such a funny, lopsided love story. It's like falling madly in love with someone with memory loss. Someday I'll be sitting across a table from A., having a dinner with this young man, and I'll remember his first smiles on that mountain morning, and how much he loved to cuddle with me, and he'll roll his eyes, mildly embarrassed at being so totally adored.