As we drove home with the windows open and I heard his little peeps from the backseat, I just started crying. And crying. And crying. The thing is, Cricket at (almost) three months is just so different from newborn Cricket. I'm so pleased he's growing and getting so much stronger. I want to have a sturdy boy, but oh my God. My newborn is not a newborn anymore. He looks more like a little boy every day.
And he's growing up. Why does this make me cry all over again? My little pup. One of our favorite things to do is take a bath. He loves the bath. And I love taking the bath with him. Someday it will be inappropriate for me to be in the bath with him, but I'll still supervise. And then someday after that, it won't be right for me to be there at all when he cleans himself. And all the little parts I take such care with now, cleaning him, massaging his lovely chubby legs-- I won't even see those parts. They won't be mine to see. How can my little boy ever get that big?
Sometimes I think we live so in the moment of parenting, we forget the aim. We obsess about getting him to sleep. Cleaning the laundry. Going to the doctor. Packing the diaper bag. Did we read enough to him today? Did he get adequate tummy time? Why is he crying? Should we get him out for a walk? Is it too cold? Too hot? Why (oh why oh why) won't he nap? And all those questions we ask ourselves, we forget about the larger meaning behind them. Why do I want to read to him? Why is it important he gets tummy time? I want to make all those neural connections and get him strong so he'll keep growing into a strapping little lad, and then into a well built man. It's the goal, per se, of motherhood and the fact that he's growing means we're doing our job.
The motherhood lark is a new type of job, eh? Because I desperately want to do a good job, but I'm so sad at the same time I'm happy to see it being done. I look forward to all the things we have in front of us, and there's so much. But then I think of the pile of clothes stacked upstairs in the bedroom. I try to put an outfit on him "one last time" before it retires. I can remember when these same clothes didn't fit him and he was swimming in them. It seemed he'd never fill out the smallest of onsies. And now he's bursting out of them. Pant legs that were once too long now only come to his knees. We might, with the help of God, have another child to wear some of these clothes once more, but Cricket will never again wear them. And while it's always happy to see the season turn, there's a certain sadness as we turn into the sun knowing the turning will continue until the day Cricket walks off on his into that same sun. And then I'm sure we'll watch with pride just as I'm sure as our tears fall.
Labels: Growing Up