Morning Breath

It never crossed my mind that Charlie would get morning breath. He does. I just noticed it. I lifted him from his crib. The skin on his cheeks was the red color of a warm afternoon nap. His hair was matted down on one side and ruffled on the other. Snot had dried and crusted around his nose and across his cheek where he had dragged his forearm. Hard sunlight infiltrated the room around the edges of the blinds. I knelt down to shut off the oscillating fan. In doing so I shifted Charlie's body to a reclining position. From that vantage point Charlie could reach out and squeeze my chin and I could look at the bumps and lines and ridges in the chalk pink roof of his mouth. I inspected his teeth. I found no visible signs of decay. They are coming in nicely too; well spaced, proportioned, straight. I never wore braces. But I have pointy incisors. Charlie has those. And he gets morning breath.

At the breakfast table, Charlie waved a star topped magic wand while I read the newspaper. The wand was a party favor. He said it was beautiful. I agreed.