Between blizzards, a team of raucous Americans that's invaded wee Belfast, yet another arson, Marlo moving here this week and riots in Ardoyne, there's a lot I want to talk about right now, but I will save it for a time when I have more than a couple of minutes to sit still. But I can't let another day pass without mentioning BAILIE.
Bailie is three years old, extremely talkative in that unintelligibly endearing way, and the new apple of my eye. He can't say most of his letters, so I am now "Yoya," and my job is apparently to help him climb onto anything that is higher than his head. Occasionally, I'll feel a tiny arm wrap itself around my shoulders and turn to be greeted with a tiny kiss, right on the lips. It's always the adorable kind of three-year-old kiss where they just kind of put their mouth there and don't move their lips at all, and it's always followed up with a small hug and his head resting on my shoulder for a few moments, before he goes back to playing in the sandbox.
Bailie kissing me probably breaks about a million child-protection laws, and all I ever want to do is grab his cute little face and kiss his forehead and cheeks and nose, but I can't because he's not mine and that might be kind of scary.
But I am thinking of legally changing my name to Yoya, anyway.
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