Walk Like a Man, My Son

Wombat, you are 10 months, 3 weeks, and 2 days old, and if someone had told me 10 months, 3 weeks, and 1 day ago that I'd be writing you a monthly(-turned-quarterly) letter at such a random, nonsensical, asymmetrical point in your life, I'd have sent them away posthaste with the nice young men in their clean white coats because, hello, I don't do random or nonsensical or asymmetrical, and if anyone thinks having a baby is going to challenge that core personality trait, she might as well just put the straightjacket on herself because the train she's riding only goes one place, and that's to Crazytown.

Of course, now here we are 10 months, 3 weeks, and 2 days later and all I can do is shrug because...well, because I've got bigger things to worry about than what day it is, like where did you lose your sock, and where did I lose my chub-cheeked, loll-legged baby?

So I'm writing today not because it's an anniversary or to mark a milestone (although Daddy did teach you to clap this morning; you are now the punchline to all our jokes about venereal disease), but because I have some spare moments to write and some spare brain cells to devote to memorializing this random, nonsensical, asymmetrical point in your life, and if there's anything I've learned being your mother these past 10 months, 3 weeks, and 2 days, it's that I have to jump on opportunities when they present themselves. That's the only way any of us stay showered and fed and rested anymore, frankly, although it certainly helps that our standards in those areas have dropped as spectacularly as the ball on New Years Rockin' Eve, with confetti and champagne and everything.

Despite the frenzied look I wear most days, however, these last few months haven't been the race against time we've grown accustomed to since your arrival but rather a misty watercolor blur as one day bleeds into the next day bleeds into the next. As we slide headfirst down the rainbow to your first birthday, it actually feels like time is passing slower in some ways now that you're not learning something new every day, or even every week. It used to be that the dates fell off the calendar into a heap like the leaves of the purple plum tree out front, and no matter how hard I tried to keep up--whether by lovingly pressing each leaf into a scrapbook or by raking them into a garbage bag for the compost pile--you were always, inevitably, onto the Next Big Thing while I was still scratching my head wondering about the Last Big Thing, like how it is that I'm the mother of someone who not only knows the word "car," but will crawl across the room to get his car, and then drive it toward me over the carpet going "brrrrrrrr." Ye gods, what magic is this?

Last week while your Uncle Teddy was visiting, I asked you to find your favorite book--"Where's Little Pookie?" I prompted--fully expecting you to just scan the immediate vicinity and then cock your head to the side like the top tail of a question mark, a fine trick in and of itself. Instead, though, you lurched forward onto your hands and knees and then you head-down barreled into the next room where, somehow, you found Little Pookie in the giant Babel of books we read all day every day four times in a row pleasesantasendmorebooks, and brought it back to me, proud as a cat with his kill. I stand amazed.

(I do understand perfectly how it is you know that dogs go "arf" and cows go "moooooo," since those are part of our rigorous daily skillz routine, but who taught you that "outside" means outside, and that "birds" live "up" in the "trees" out there? You're still just a baby, for crying out loud, and we already have to spell out M-I-L-K after one too many incidents of indecent exposure at the grocery store while stocking up on 2%. This also served as confirmation that your father was right when he said it was time to stop swearing in front of you. Phooey.)

Speaking of that-which-must-be-spelled, there were a few weeks there that I thought you might wean soon, but apparently we were just taking some time apart because now the romance is stronger than ever. Boob this, boob that, boob boob boob. Boob in the morning, boob at night, boob when you're happy, boob when you're sad. Swing your boobies, do-si-do, no wonder that they're hanging low. Don't ever say I never did nothin' for ya, kid.

One thing I need to alwaysalwaysalways remember is to appreciate the wondrous even as it becomes commonplace. How long have you been turning book pages and nesting your stacking cups and nuzzling your nose into my neck when I ask for a hug? Forever, it seems, and yet not even a year ago you were still under construction, a half-built house with room for a tenant but no one inside yet, a book of pages with no words, no pictures. Even back then, though, you were full of surprises: hidden staircases, secret passageways; you are a Jack-in-the-box who sometimes pops before your cue, making my heart seize with both joy and fear. You are alive now, that's for sure. You are electric with possibility, and sometimes the things you do make my hair stand on end too.

A few days ago I was sitting on the floor a few babysteps away from where you were standing in front of your exersaucer, that hulk of fluorescent plastic with the dying batteries of endless hilarity, that once-upon-a-time savior now stripped of its ability to keep you safe and stationary while your parents try to eke out another half hour of sleep. It was last Monday, I think, and one second you were standing against the exersaucer, your yellow plastic fish in one hand, and the next second you were bridging the gap between us with your own first honest-to-goodness babysteps, the yellow plastic fish leading the way, your free hand splayed like an exuberant starfish.

"You walked!" I cried (of course I cried), and then to keep the world from crashing down around me, I raised support beams the only way I knew how: with rationalizations. I told myself: For now, at least, whenever you take a few lurching steps toward me, you come to rest in the nest of my lap, content that you've reached your destination instead of just stumbled upon a place to catch your breath before moving on again. For now, at least, you prefer to walk holding someone's hand, and for now, at least, that hand is mine at least half the time. For now, at least, your father and I know that while having you walk beside us doesn't hold the same thrill as when you're walking straight at us, all by yourself, it's still way better than watching you walk away. You still look so small from a distance--because you are small, so impossibly small--and so I'm glad that your favorite place to be, at least for now, is in my lap, and that when you do go away, you never go too far and you always look back to make sure I'm still there, watching you.

Last weekend we spent the afternoon at the park, and when a dad and his son forced us off the baseball diamond with their batting practice, we gathered up our picnic and made our way to the playground the quickest way we could: one of us holding each of your hands and swinging you into the air on the count of "threeeeee," our voices reaching the register reserved for babies and small dogs. You giggled and squealed and kicked your stripe-socked feet at the big autumn sun. When we got to the playground we had to take off our jackets because here, at last, was our Indian summer, and you, my son, are getting to be a very big boy.

It was hot, we were sweating, but you wanted to go down the slides (all of them, even the scary, bumpy, twisty ones) again and again and again, and who were we to deny you? Indeed, who were we but the people most likely to do whatever you ask, whether with words or signs (still working on "more!") or solely for the reward of your jack-o-lantern smile. Lick my face and call me a sucker; I'm at your command.

So, you're walking now, I guess, although it's only a few steps unless you're holding onto something, and then, hoo boy, look out!

Dad took that clip on his old college campus a few days ago, and the symbolist in me very much wants to point out the parallel between this milestone happening in a place so forward-thinking--home to Nobel Prize winners and the most famous of the hippies--and to a little boy so ahead of his time. What started with one arched eyebrow turned into gigglefits and kicklepants and stair-climbing seemingly overnight, and now, out of nowhere (but not), you're a high-swinging, slip-sliding, baby-stepping toddler.

Oh, kid. Oh sweet big-boy-baby kid with the dirty knees. How much longer until you can fly? (And can I come too?)

wrote Leah at 10:31 AM | Comments (24)