Little One

I don't do a lot of the things that (maybe) other mothers do -- I didn't write letters to the unborn child, though I think it's a brilliant idea. I did save some emails that I sent to friends, and wish I hadn't hit delete on some others, though. We haven't done as much videotaping and montaging as we should. I have a couple of baby books started, but well, that's it.

I've saved every update from the pediatrician and they're all in a box -- one of many boxes currently waiting to be unpacked in the basement. I've made some digital photo pages that I'm proud of, but he'll be hard-pressed to brag about the impeccable record-keeping that we did with him. And yet.

There have been moments this past week, as he's fully felt better and we've all been settling back into a new routine of working (Mommy, office. Daddy-office. Coffee-office.), and daycare, and my mother (Grammie) being here and leaving again, there have been moments of pure bliss. Little tender moments of him sleeping, or not -- staying up far later than he ever has, and we as his parents simply rolling with it. Because really, trying to reason with a non-tired toddler... yep. He rolled a choo-choo into a spot that he couldn't get and proceeded to squish his face down into the space and ask, "Doing down there?" with perfect inquisitive inflection. Indeed, little choo-choo, what are you doing down there?

Tonight he took a bath (which means I took one, too) and he wanted more and more and more lotion (which he calls "ocean") and so there were bubbles and bubbles and bubbles, because of course the bath ocean is soap. And I was astounded again at his understanding as I dried him off and he ran (naked) after the kitties, squealing the whole time in delight, and then he turned to me and said, "Comb, hair. Mommy comb." And we put him in his snuggly pjs and soon he was asleep.

I peeked not long ago and his hair is all squrmshed up in the back where it was still wet and he fell asleep, but he's clutching his bankie in his fist and there's a faint smile on his face. And I realize, more for myself than anyone else, that it doesn't matter how I catalog his height and weight, if I remember what his first word is or more importantly that I didn't write it down. It's not a competition between me and the "other mothers" that I've created in my mind. Tonight, more than anything, it's about being overwhelmed with the love that I have for him -- absolutely overwhelmed.