I noticed his ears when I first laid eyes on him at 3:02 pm on December 11. His ears were hard to miss--the same size as his four-year-old sister; Nicholas' ears stuck out from his head. It is like they will be listening to everything; not missing a thing; keeping the beat and always knowing the song.
My Dad had the same big ears--a signature of Carrington men (and thankfully, not of Carrington women.).
My old man was right there with us--greeting his first grandson and third grandchild--in spirit. He was there running through my thoughts and watching over us.
We named Nicholas for my Dad. Nicholas is the patron saint of sailors (and children). My father was a sailor, a Merchant Marine in World War II. St. Nicholas is said to have guided sailors home; protected them and secured their lives. As a little girl, I loved my father's stories of sailing around the world to England and Morocco and through the Panama canal and to Spain and Curcao. As a college student, I hung on every word as he told me the dark stories of floating in southern Atlantic Ocean, all night long after his ship was torpedoed.
It seems St. Nicholas was with my Dad, giving him safe passage so I could be born 35 years later and so his grandson could be born 70 years later, a full term, gigantic healthy baby boy.
Nicholas is a slice of perfection. His thick black hair. His dark gray baby eyes. His long skinny feet. His gorgeous cheeks--the same cheeks Mike had as a baby.
Nicholas is the baby I never thought I would have; but the child I've loved my whole life. He has completed us in a way I never thought possible; opened a door I thought was closed. As I gaze at him, I know exactly where he came from. It is written all over his face and his ears.