He thrashes around, finding the perfect hollow where his body melts into the folds of the cushions. Grabbing the remote, he wildly pushes buttons - the chair responds, it’s motor shifting to match the control.

Slather on sunscreen. Chase baby around the house to ensure he is covered from head to toe. Baby may put up resistance, push through. Word of caution: after baby is covered they will be slippery, also sunscreen spots do not look good on clothing.

It’s the color of freedom and back roads, a deep rusted orange. As the paint chips flake off, memories scatter like marbles - road trips through dusty and desolate  trails, sticky sweet cuddles, inky black nights punctuated by the occasional shooting star.

His mom jams his hat on his head. He tolerates it because it keeps the sun out of his eyes, which he hates.

He knows he is in charge here, doesn’t take any lip from his subjects, They lie scattered around him, discarded in a moment of whim and brilliance.