The chair is the same.
Less padding in its seat now, but that's ok because there's more in mine.
The green cushion is squished out of all recognisable shape and could never be interpreted as ever having been square now.
But the chair is the same.
The tune on the mobile is the same.
Your dark eyelashes rest against your flushed cheeks in the same way that they did three years ago, but now those cheeks aren't as round or chubby. The Cupid's bow of your lips is more pronounced, your nose longer and taking shape. Your hair darker and more coarse.
Your face is still squished against me in the familiar manner of a child desperately seeking comfort from his mother, desperately trying to take the pain (of yet another wretched ear infection) away.
You curl an arm around my neck and pull yourself closer. Bring your knees up to your chest as I wrap my right arm around your lower half tighter to stop you from slipping. My left arm is burning with the strange angle it is contorted into to hold you close. Three years ago I could hold you with one arm nestled into me and type up a blog post with my right hand on my phone. Now I need both arms to hold you tight, while your legs dangle almost to the floor over the edge of my lap.
I contemplate my next move. How do I lift you enough to place you back into bed? Waking you is not my concern, the sheer effort of standing up while holding you is enough to consider. I tuck you in and smooth your hair, positioning Oliver Monkey under your arm. When did you become so big? Tonight has proven though that you won't stop being my baby for quite some time yet.
And the chair is still the same.