I am sitting in our guest room, which is next to Toby's room, trying to bulldoze past a mean case of writer's block. Long hours at the office, a few late nights, and a new round of colds at the house this week has taken a toll on everything here, including my mind, which I'm not convinced was ever that sharp to begin with. About writer's block, one of my college professors suggested writing "I can't think of anything to write" over and over and over again until, by magic I guess, some actual writing appeared on the page. It never worked for me; pages and pages of "I can't think…" filled my notebook that semester. So, rather than a page full of drivel, my computer screen is blank.

Tim is with Toby in his room going through our typical post-bath bedtime ritual of one book after another until…(pause)…the telltale yawn arrives, signaling that it is, at long last, time to move on to the snuggling portion of the evening. They are reading the newest addition to Toby's library, "Not a Box," by Antoinette Portis, about a rabbit with a very active imagination who plays in a cardboard box. (I think Toby, who could spend eight hours a day playing in a cardboard box, found his soul mate in that rabbit.) Each time Tim says, "It's not a box," I hear Toby's staccato giggle, which in a single burst can span a range from a deep belly laugh to pitches only our dog, Harvey, can hear.

I've been in Tim's shoes so many times that I don't need to be in the room to know exactly what is going on. Tim is sitting cross-legged on the floor with Toby's butt wedged into the triangle of Tim's legs. Toby is particular about this arrangement; when he says, "lap," he means sitting on crossed legs, whether the lap is on the floor or in a chair. Toby does not sit on a lap comprised of straight legs. Toby holds the book in his lap (which is comprised of straight legs) and the book is read in the order Toby deems best, sometimes starting at the end or in the middle, and occasionally only focusing on a single page. One single page over and over and over.

Toby likes the books that make him laugh. And, when he laughs, he grins so big that the tops and bottoms of his cheeks puff out just a little, forming semi-circles that meet at shallow dimples in the middle. When I'm reading to him, he often looks straight up at me, and I cup his face with my right hand for a moment and then trace those cheek outlines with my fingers. Toby indulges me briefly, but soon says, "no mama, read the book now."

These are the moments I'm afraid of forgetting in my mama-induced haze. I know I won't forget how Toby runs everywhere yelling "aaaahhhhh," or how he screams "Cash!" when he hears the opening notes of "It Ain't Me Babe." I won't forget how he turns every object into a drum (or a drumstick) and I won't forget how he "bams" his food like Emeril. But, I might forget the feel of his cheek cupped in my right hand. I might forget the feel of his hug, body collapsed, head heavy on my shoulder, and little arms stretched as far as they'll go around my neck. These moments are, for me, what it means to be Toby's mom.

So, for what it's worth, I'll keep returning to my computer and stare at a blank screen until my not-so-cherubic muse pops up again, reminding me not to forget.

Sara Martin is a public defender in Minneapolis, where she lives with her husband, son, and two dogs.