On Sunday, baby dude turned one.
When exactly did this happen? How is it I woke up and a year slipped by me like a prowler, and suddenly a one-year-old is nuzzling at my breasts? Where is that wrinkly, pink little gangly dude I birthed? With his peach-fuzz hair, his pouty lips and wimpered cry. Didn’t I just bring him home from the hospital, attempting to stuff him into a 0-3 months outfit with his teeny newborn body?
Didn’t I just tandem-nurse my two youngest and breastfeed them both to sleep on my chest, watching with amazement as he rolled over (with help) to meet his head with hers and cuddle, snuggling on my chest?
Didn’t he just babble at me, telling me all the things a 2-month old has to say, and more? About his life, his love, his fears, his aspirations, his need for boob and for a smiley face to play with?
Didn’t he just get his Steeler’s jersey from us at Christmas yesterday, allowing him to help us root for our favorite team to win the Superbowl?
Was he not playing on his baby laptop with daddy last week, punching away at the buttons happily?
You mean, yesterday wasn’t when he danced at 6-months-old and shook his butt to Lady GaGa?
Didn’t he just go on his first plane ride and fall asleep on Mickey Mouse at Disney?
I can’t believe he didn’t try to stand on his own for the first time last week. Has it really been a couple months?
You mean, we didn’t play dress up last night?
He didn’t just receive his first kiss this past weekend?
It really has been a year – a year of taking it all in as deliciously slow as we can, since he is our last. He knows he is, too. He’s doing his best to help us savor every last second of his babyhood, by making us linger as he attempts his big milestones slowly, teasing us while he achieves them. He may be making us wait, but he’s making us complete.
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