Since getting back from Paris, my littlest son and I have been bonding like crazy for this whole week. We’re like passionate lovers, reunited after a long absence, and both of us can’t get enough of each other. He wants to be with me at all times, though not in a clingy, needy sort of way; he just wants to be in my arms, to be snuggled and tickled, kissed and squeezed. I can’t resist his delightfully chubby body and love inhaling his baby skin scent.
He’ll turn 2 in a month’s time, which (like every mother on this planet) is impossible for me to believe. I’m noticing developmental changes that amaze me. He’s still babyish in many ways, but he’s also growing and metamorphosing into a little boy full of words, opinions, and attitudes. I absolutely love the learning-to-talk stage. He latches onto favourite phrases that he then applies to every situation:
Me: “Hurry up and finish your dinner, boys. It’s almost time for bed.”
Him: “Bed? No, thank you.”
“Do you have a poo in your diaper?”
“Poo?! No, thank you.”
He’s a little copycat and wants to be in on all the action. When I got out my violin to practice this week, he rushed upstairs on his own, pulled the ukulele out of the closet, and somehow got it down the stairs (much to the ukulele’s detriment) to join in the music-making.
An expression of pure delight comes over his face whenever he hears music with a loud bass line or drums. “Dums! Dums!” he shouts and starts waving his arms to imitate the drumming that his father has shown him. He loves to dance spontaneously, whether it’s spinning in wild circles to the point of collapse or whirling in my arms to a catchy song. While his brother shrieks in outrage and begs to be put down if I pick him up for a dance, I can always count on the baby to be my partner.
We went to the beach together on a blustery, cold day – my favourite kind of weather. He spotted a flock of geese and took off like a flash, shrieking, ‘Geese! Stop! Please!” They ignored his pleas and outstretched arms, settling just beyond his grasp every time he slowed down. I’ve forgotten how delightful it is to show the world to a young toddler.
My baby… I realize I can’t keep calling him that because he won’t be a baby much longer. It sounds crazy because I’m still in the midst of child-raising, but a low-level panic is starting to set in. What am I going to do when I don’t have a baby anymore?