Noah and Max are the small Kings here. We bow down to their every need; we discuss their progress, imagine their development and predict their future. All they want is milk.
We buy them shoes that fit, but fifteen minutes later they no longer fit. We talk about equipment and nutrition and swimming classes. Noah and Max exchange glances of agreed contempt. Where is the milk?
They are busy with work; their bodies are roaring with growth, their brains are ticking, drinking in faces along with the milk. Their ears must be full of noise and colour and heartbeats, we always place Noah across our heart. Max likes to hold his head against another head, he pushes his small ear against a chin, feeling the words softly drumming on and on…
Max examines his own foot, confounded. Noah’s dark eyes flicker as his ears draw in one sound after another.
We talk about sleep, and about parenting and about bananas.
Max now might go to the toilet and Noah – he is slipping back into sleep. There is just time for them to glance again at each other, amused.