The Appeal of Neverland

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???). 

They say the funniest things. “Are you kidding me?” Gray asks when I tell him he can’t have a cookie. Ren answers “No worries,” when I thank him for closing the door. Last month he brought me a toy and said it needed batteries. “What kind of batteries does it need?” I asked. He looked at me like I was stupid, threw his hands in the air, and said, “NEW batteries.”

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.