For the last few months, Owen has sweetly obliged when we’ve said, “Can we have a kiss?”. He demurely offers his forehead to be kissed, like the queen offering the back of her hand. But the other night while I was drying him off after his bath and cuddling his warm body wrapped in his hooded froggy towel, I said, “Kiss!” and planted one square on his lips.
He giggled and said, “Mo! Mo!” while doing the sign language for “more”. More kisses, please!
I kissed him again. He squealed with delight.
Now it has become part of our nightly ritual. Big, fat kisses. Usually he presses his lips together so they make a straight line and then smooshes his face right into mine. It’s really more like a head butt or like he’s trying to give me a fat lip. Sometimes he opens his mouth for a wet, sloppy one. Often he grabs his tiny arms around my neck or squarely on my cheeks and holds my head down so the kisses don’t stop.
I know someday he will regret that I told the internet about this, but Owen loves kissing his mommy on the lips.
Oh, did I mention how much I love kissing him too? Because I do. More than I ever thought possible.
As of now, I’m the only one who has been on the receiving end of these sweet little gifts. Daddy still gets the forehead. It’s our special little thing.