I don’t know where my babies have gone.
They can count to 15, say their ABC’s, hit a baseball, and
catch a fish. They know their colors, digits, shapes, some letters, and the
difference between a cobia and a grouper. I’ll hear them singing songs and they
know all the words. They fake phone calls to their grandparents (“Hello,
Grandpa, Nice to meet ya!”) and pretend play “Boathouse” with their forklifts
and boats (oh, Wiggins Lift Company, can’t you please make a marina play
set???).
This is a bittersweet time. Life is getting easier: we can
stay out past 7:30, be late for a nap, find time for ourselves, stop hovering,
and no longer worry that every place we go be baby-proofed. And the rewards are
endless. At least once a day, my boys ask for a hug and tell me they love me.
But at the same time, I long for their babyhood to come back, just for a
second, a minute, a day. Their chubby cheeks, the smell of their wispy baby
hair, the smacks of their fat hands as they crawl across the floor, the coos
and giggles of their incoherent chatter. This is when younger, fertile women
start to think about another baby, and I mourn my inability to join them.
Potty training is our newest adventure, although I’m in no
hurry. As excited as I am to stop buying diapers, it seems like their padded
bums are the last bit left of their infancy. I’ll be sad when diaper butt is
done.