A Tale of Baby Dimples, Dreams, and The Son I Always Knew

It’s funny, because when I look at my son, I see the boy that I always dreamed my son would look like. 

When I told my mom that one day over dinner at her house, she laughed at me. “Oh, you knew he’d look like that even before you met your husband, huh?” she chuckled.

But the truth is, I did. 

I always imagined my son, a strapping boy even at 19 months, his little body startlingly muscular, his growth off the charts at every check-up, prompting his pediatrician to smile and shake his head a little every time and ask me if I replaced my milk with whipped cream. (Um, no and um, kind of gross.)

I pictured him as he is now, a face that lights up when he is happy, eyes that crinkle when he smiles, a hand held in mine that is at once the baby’s that he is, and the man he will become.

Hair just a little on the wild side, even when my husband takes the clippers to it in a vain attempt to tame it.

And his personality–his sweet, sweet personality. A boy who fiercely loves his mama, sometimes toddling up to me and lifting his face up to mine just for a kiss, running away in perfect contentment after it has been very happily given. A little man who makes me delight in all things boy: dirt and trucks, tractors and trains.

But there is one part of my son that I hadn’t imagined when I pictured him in my life; and they are a quality that I may just love the best.

His dimples. 


My son’s dimples melt my heart in a way I definitely didn’t see coming.

What are those little things in his cheeks, little indents that leave a lasting imprint forever on my mother’s heart? 

They are just so uniquely him–a mixture of sweet and mischief, charm and boyish imp.

My husband and I joke that he will be our children that gets away with anything at school, melting his teachers’ hearts with a flash of his famous dimples.

I’ll never forget the first time I saw my son smile. A half-smile at first, nestled safely in my arms in those first irreplaceable hours in the hospital. I called excitedly to my husband, who was of course, dozing in the hospital-issued burnt purple armchair that folds out into what is meant to be a sleeping apparatus. “Honey, I think he has dimples! Did you see that?!”

Somehow he wasn’t as excited as I was, issuing a half a snore in our direction and shaking his head wearily.

Ok, so he didn’t share my enthusiasm in the discovery of our son’s dimples, but for me, in some way, that joy has never faded.

Every belly laugh, every smile, every minute I soak up cheek-to-cheek with my son, I am reminded that he is the baby boy I always dreamed about.

And yet so uniquely his own.

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