When my son Gabriel was born, he was just a baby. There was no obvious difference in him, nothing to make me think he was anything unusual. Please don't misunderstand. He was a lovely, placid, long-sleeping, agreeable baby, and that in itself was a miracle. Moreover, he was mine; and that, in itself, was enough to make me love him the way all mothers love their babies (in other words, like normal people love oxygen). Now, though, he is more than my baby. Now, he is the Bunnyman, and he is more than I could have dreamed.
He likes everyone. I myself am a firm believer in looking for the good in people, even when you have to search high, low, and in-between for it, but my son... my son barely has to look. He just glances at people, and you can see it on his happy, open little face. He is actively giving them the benefit of the doubt. He is convinced that they will get along splendidly, until they give him a reason to believe otherwise. If my son had the necessary understanding of language, he would absolutely subscribe to the ideology that strangers are just friends you haven't met yet.
He is a smiling, golden, chubby-cheeked, sunny-haired, sweet-eyed ball of sunshine, and I love him more every day. After my daughter (who is AWESOME, by the way; just rather intense in her awesomeness) my son was *exactly* what was needed. I cannot imagine a better foil for my daughter, or a more perfect way to complete our small circle of familial goodness. In the Book of Family, my son is the feel-good chapter that ties up the loose ends and leaves you with a warm glow. He is the chord change, from minor to major, that finishes a poignant song on an upbeat note. When the credits are about to roll, my son is the scene that turns the movie into a truly uplifting story and causes you to the leave the cinema smiling.
If you knew my son, you'd be happier for it. You wouldn't be able to help yourself. You would look at him, and the crinkly, eye-scrunching smile on his face would transfer itself to your own.
I don't mean to imply that's he's always happy, or that he has no faults. He's simply much more inclined to laughing than crying. In a way, the very fact of his almost unshakable happiness is proof that he's not like every other child you see... as is the fact that his song is, after 2 years, still a wordless one.
There are clues aplenty, if you look for them. Clues to what he is, and clues to how his life may not always be as fluffy and adorable as the creature he reminds me of.
For now, though. For now, he is the bouncing Bunnyman, more than the toddler who weeps with conspicuously absent tears when his will is thwarted. For now, he is the balm for a wound that never heals, more than a fresh wounding. For now, he is 'Oh Happy Day,' more than 'My Soul in Sad Exile'.
No matter what, he will always be a reward for taking a certain path again, even after realising that the way is fraught with danger and uncertainty. And, to me at least, he will always be my Bunnyman.