Have a favorite age for my children, that is.
Here's a clue: it is definitely not three-years-old.
No, no. My favorite age, by far, is the current age of Sly: that point when babyhood is still a recent memory, and the baby lotion smells haven't quite disappeared but toddler time is in full swing, complete with bumps and bruises and an irresistable waddle-run. It is that time when you can look at a little person, and with a certain outfit or hairstyle or pose, you can see glimpses of the little boy, and eventually the man, he is going to become.
I have been aware for the past, well, while, that most of my blogging seems to center around my daughter. I know why, but I don't know how I am going to explain that to my son when he is old enough to ask about the imbalance. So here's my explanation, Baby Guy, and I hope you understand one thing above all: you are loved. More than you know.
Here's the thing, Sly. Your sister, well, she's nuts, and I have spent the last three years trying to figure her out, and one of the ways I make sense of things is to write about them.
You have always made sense to me.
I'm well aware that this may change, probably in the next four-to-six months as we hit that "terrible two's" window. But for now, and for the past eighteen months, you are simply my baby boy, and though I am not always happy about the way you constantly hang on my knees, I am grateful for your simple, constant devotion to "MOOOOMMMMMMAAA!"
My first memory of you happened at my first perinatologist appointment. Oh, how I hate that place. That was a rough day, and the beginning of an even rougher journey to get you here healthy. I remember laying on a cold paper sheet with a thin piece of cotton fabric over me, searching a grayscale screen to make sense of the blobs. And then, I saw you, not even a fully formed fetus yet, but there was a beating heart and a backbone and you were curled up on your side in a way that seemed to say to me, "Why are you so worried, Mom? We've got this."
And so we do. The way you calmed me then and the way you calm me now aren't all that different. I don't often find the need to write my way through your life, because I would rather cuddle and throw a "fooo-ball!" with you instead.
Sometimes parents dread that phase between 12-18 months. Admittedly, it does make attending church services a million times harder, but since Daddy is the one who has to wrestle you through 2/3rds of church, I'm not really bothered. I love this age.
I especially love you at this age.
Your learning seems to have accelerated. You know over 65 words, and I love to hear you say them. Sometimes I ask you to say sorry just because I love how you apologize while smiling, "sawwy!" (I tend to laugh when I apologize to your father too). I love to hear you say "pweese!" and how you ask for a "cooo-kie" because you know that I have to have some hidden somewhere. I love how the first thing you say in the morning is "ball!" and when I get you out of your crib, we have to shoot a few hoops before you will let me change your bum.
I secretly love how you climb on everything, especially your father. I know I tell you to sit down in the firmest voice I can muster, but I will admit this here: I am always impressed at the way you are able to surf on the rocking chair.
I love how you hold your own with your sister and the way you get a fake whine in your voice when you tell me (in gibberish) what "siss-ta" has done to you. You little tattle-tell, you. Most of the time she hasn't done anything but love you a little too hard.
I love how I watched her do a "high jump" off the bottom stair today and seconds later, after I'd walked into the kitchen, I heard a thunk and when I went back around the corner, you were laying on the floor looking a little dazed.
You would fly through life if gravity would let you.
You accumulate new bumps and bruises daily, but you usually only cry long enough to get a cuddle out of me. You don't snuggle for long, but occasionally after your nap you want to be rocked for a just a minute or two while your eyes adjust to the afternoon sunlight coming in through your window.
You make me laugh. You make everybody laugh. You are a big flirt, and it doesn't matter if the girl is 8 months old or 80 years old, you charm her to pieces. I love the way you go to give me a gentle kiss but then ram your head into my cheek and I have to turn my face so you don't break my jaw. You don't know your own strength yet, but you do know that carrying around Balto is a feat that impresses adults.
I love how your chubby little feet bounce when you do your happy dance and how you have perfected the art of spinning just close enough to the stairs to make my heart race but still stay out of danger.
I love to watch you sleep in the car, because stillness is such a foreign state for you. I'm always afraid to creep into your room lest I wake you up before I have mustered up the energy to parent you, but I must admit that when I have to wake you so we can get out the door, I always spend an extra minute or two staring at your sleeping form before I nudge you and scoop you up into my arms.
I often tell people how funny you are, and when they wait for an example, I can't think of anything specific. There is just something about you--maybe that cunning twinkle in your navy blue eyes--that makes a person want to chuckle and be happy.
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| usually turns to this in about thirty seconds. |
(Note: Just the way you are now, because when phase-age-stages two and three hit, this is subject to change. I know this because when your sister was this age, I wrote this post on "The Happiest I've Ever Been" when Kevin was 17 months old and I realize now that although being a stay-at-home mom did and does bring me happiness, it sure as heck brings me a lot of misery too, so I probably was so happy because she was so happy all the time.)
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