Today as I sat at the table with my two-and-a-half-year-old,
I couldn’t help but marvel at just how BIG he was. Watching him heave spoonfuls
of mac ‘n’ cheese into his mouth, expertly maneuvering the spoon without even
looking at it, I longed a little for the days when I had to feed him: highchair,
bib, tiny plastic spoons—the whole nine yards. Today, he did not need my help
to eat his lunch, and honestly, it’d been a long time since he had.
For some reason, in that moment,
his eyes fixed on Curious George as
he ate, he seemed so much bigger than the day before. Heck, he seemed bigger
than he had at breakfast. Maybe I had finally sat down long enough to notice,
or maybe it had something to do with the fact that we had taken our first
preschool tour that morning.
All he ever talks about is being
bigger. He wakes up from a nap, “I’m bigger, Mom!” From the backseat of my car
he says matter-of-factly, “when I’m 16, I can reach the pedals.” I tell him, it’s
good to be little, to stay little as long as he can, but he’s in a rush to grow
up.
It seems like forever from now that
he’ll truly be big enough to not need me anymore, to be able to reach those
pedals, to secure true independence, but I suppose when he was an infant, lounging
in my arms most of the day, I thought having a toddler was a long ways off,
too. Being bigger is all he wants to think about, and I can hardly bear the
thought of it.
We’ve left behind everything “baby,”
about him. Every time I call him baby, he stands tall and corrects me, “Mom, I’m
not a baby. I’m a big boy!” And he’s right. I simultaneously fight and embrace him
growing him. We’ve left behind the binkies, the bottles, the crib, and the high
chair. We’re almost done with the diapers. And I’ve marveled in every milestone.
Clapped for him, gave rambunctious high fives, celebrated his every success
right there with him, a wide grin pulling across his face as he cheers and
says, “I’m big!”
After I tuck him into bed, savoring
the song he still asks for and the stories I still read to him, I retreat with
a simple, “goodnight, I love you.” He returns the sentiment, and I let go a sigh
of relief that the day is over, before pressing my fingers to my eyes to
staunch the tears. Because when he wakes up, I know one thing is true: he’ll be
bigger.
-- N.
