Three months ago, his language consisted of "ont Moma"...Dada...Memie (emily)...."jus" (juice)..."ont mor" (want more) ..."fir tuck" (fire truck). A synaptic explosion occured in his little two year old brain and he's now speaking in complete sentences, carrying on conversations and for the most part actually being a productive member of the family. With the language explosion came a shift in my perception of his place and position...he's quickly trading in being my baby for becoming my thinking, feeling little boy. This squeezes my heart in some strange places. Although, I will rejoice when we graduate from pampers to spider man underwear, I know that moment of changing the last diaper will come and go without much fanfare. It will occur quietly in the shadows while our focus is diverted to the celebration of the new skill. Out with the old and in with the new.
At Christmas, to make room for the tree, we moved the glider rocking chair back into his bedroom from it's long time home in the living room. He suddenly started asking to be rocked before naps and bedtime. And, since he hears it often in response to his requests, he asked for only a minute. "Momma, rocka' minit?" For a few sweet moments, I get to give in to his request, rocking and singing to him once again not thinking about the moment that he will ask for the last time...but, clinging just for a "minit" to the baby he's quickly unbecoming...
The Pretender (Review)
1 week ago