18

Grayson,

You are eighteen-months old today. Happy "half" birthday!! A year and a half, 1.5 - and although I realize that 1/2 is only 1/2 as meaningful as a 1/whole, I have a soft spot for half-birthdays as it doesn't feel like so long ago that I introduced myself in halves and three quarters and thirds.

"How old are you?"
"I'm ten and a half. How old are you?"
"Eight and three quarters."

And as children we understood perfectly.

And as adults, or should I say, parents, we still do:

"How old is your child?"
"Sixteen weeks" or "Seventeen months" or "forty-seven months..." (which is when I have to do the math on my fingers.)

Before I had a child I was always annoyed with the parents who rattled off their children's ages in months like I was supposed to know the difference between thirteen months and twenty-six months and thirty-three months and so on. Why couldn't she just say "my kid is two or almost four?" I always found it to be some strange parent-language but now that I have you, I get it. I do.

Because when you have a baby, every DAY counts. Every WEEK matters. Every MONTH is a revelation, a collection of milestones so broad, it is easy to forget that they have even happened.

Grayson, you have suddenly, over the course of several weeks,turned into a little boy. And sometimes when I look at you, my heart melts. I fall between the floor cracks in gooey strands. Those eyes. That little belly-laugh. Those ever-cold hands and toes like chubby berries. Can I eat them? Baby toes. Delicious!


Today I was describing you to an old friend on the phone and I got teary-eyed trying to explain the emotion I felt looking at this photo.

Photo Sharing - Video Sharing - Photo Printing
How in heavens could something so perfect come from me? How is it possible that this tiny beam of light didn't used to exist?

And I felt suddenly blindsided by love. Bumping into everything and skipping down the sidewalk and over-tipping the hostess who isn't even allowed to accept tips--in love.

And so I went to you, asleep in your crib, with your legs tucked up under your chest and I just stood there like a fool, staring with my mouth open, shaking my head like, "who are you?"

Seriously. Who are you?

Photo Sharing - Video Sharing - Photo Printing

Who is this little boy walking across the street, not wanting to hold my hand, with his little eyes taking in everything around him? How is it that you can be walking toward me, with your little shadow tripping beside you? You want ME to pick you up. You want ME to love on you and hold you and suck the yummy Cheeto's stains from your fingers. You want ME to fall asleep on in the shower, with water on our faces and rubber duckies on our heads. Me. ME??? But I'm just me.

But to you......I'm me x infinity. Super-me. Like my mother is to me and hers to her and so on.

And sometimes I watch you for clues. For expressions that look like mine, raised eyebrows, cockeyed glances, crooked smiles.

When I saw this photo I thought. "Yup, he's mine."




Photo Sharing - Video Sharing - Photo Printing
The posed look I always have in photographs, and your face making the same expression. I laughed. And then I cried because it's hard to believe you are my baby sometimes.

And then there are those times that I just see me. In you. Like this one. Little emotional roller coasters, we are.

Photo Sharing - Video Sharing - Photo Printing
Then of course there are the days when parenthood is like trying to rescue bees from a swimming pool (knowing right well you'll probably get stung) but that's for another day.

Parenthood. Bees. Little boys with great big eyes who walk on two feet and fall down and laugh and scream and wipe their eyes when they're sleepy and lie down on their backs in the middle of the street and play peek-a-boo.

A half birthday may not be much, but to me, the mother of a 1.5 year old, a half birthday is huge. Eighteen months. So fast.

One day I won't count months anymore. Soon it will be years. Something I can't even begin to imagine. But even as the months fly by and the weeks and the days practically disintegrate, I am grateful. And thankful. And in love. More in love than ever. Looking forward to tomorrow morning when I get to wake up to you standing in your crib yelling, "Mamamamamamamama"....."MAMAMAMAMAMA" and your open-mouthed kiss on my cheek and fingernails clawing at my face like stingers. Always my little bumble bee. My little boy.