I remember this time…around 20 months…when suddenly baby legs are long and their walk not so much a toddle of a drunken sailor anymore.
I remember looking at Eddie one day wondering where the baby went–the tiny wailing mush-pile in my arms.
Tiny babies are suddenly everywhere and I look around our house and realize that none of them live here anymore.
Oh the busyness is still there. It is not stop running and jabbering and crying and quarreling and eating and playing in our house, but these are the sounds of little boys, not babies.
Gone are the days of complete helplessness. There is a helper around every corner now–sometimes willing, other times not. Voices can now tell me “yes” and “no”.
Everyone in this house can take direction…even if he acts like he can’t sometimes.
There are no more baby sounds or smells. No bottles lining the counter or baby food piled in the pantry. Instead there are sippy cups of sour milk hiding behind chairs and messes that Nobody made.
There are tantrums and fits and “NO!” and “MINE!” yelled through the house so loudly I wonder if the windows will break.
But if I am quiet and still, I can still sometimes smell that infant scent lingering on your skin and in your hair. And I can still hear little gurgles and coos coming from your crib where you still find comfort and sleep.
Your skin is still soft and squishy even if it’s stretched out over a little boy and not all wrinkled up on a baby.
And when it’s silent and dark in the house, you would still rather lie close to me, matching your breathing to mine, while I hold your hand and run my fingers through your soft hair.
I know though that the baby is on his way out, and the little boy is on his way in. I’m not a stranger to this stage. But I won’t let the baby go without giving it a bit of a fight.
I’ll hold on to those curls and that softness as long as you will let me, Charlie Bird.
Happy Twenty Months, my lovie.