Mr. Independent

I received a good amount of feedback on my Facebook status update this morning.

I lamented watching Scott walk/run into the daycare room all on his own, without even the slightest glance back at me and nary a thought in his little head (or so it seemed) for the mommy he left in his dust.

Most everyone sympathized, and a few mommies pointed out this independent streak is actually a good thing - my little boy is growing up and has the confidence to go forward without my help.

I guess I get that - its a good, and valid point. But his behavior still makes me a little sad.

When Scott was a baby - an infant - Jim and I talked about "when he's older." As in: we can't wait until he's older and he can interact with us, he won't wake up every three hours, we can take him places, he can talk and tell us what he likes and doesn't like.

Well, we're there.

Tank shows us everyday that he's becoming a strong little man. His own person. He can be fun and exuberant, whiny and willful.

As I watch him, I vascillate between incredible bursts of pride and pangs of longing and sadness. I love that he's developing his own likes, dislikes, fears, interests.

But he's becoming less and less a baby and I am constantly reminded of little things I miss:

--How he used to let me rock him to sleep in bed or in the comfy glider in his room, his head perfectly curled into the crook of my arm.


--How his little hand would grip my index finger while he drank his milk.


--How he used to splash like a Buddha baby in his infant bathtub. 

--How he loved to be bundled into his Miracle Blanket/swaddler at bedtime, but then would delight in kicking both legs simultaneously, like a prisoner trying to escape a straight jacket, until he propelled himself in a 180 degree half circle around his crib, wore himself out and fell asleep.

It wasn't too long ago that Scott actually DID fit in one of those Bumbo seats...now they just make  great play toys.

Everyone tells you when you have kids, time flies.

That is and isn't true.

Individual days can sometimes stretch out for an eternity and leave you feeling like you are wandering through a desert without even a mirage or the slightest hint of water.

But collectively, they zoom by in a mind-blowing blur.

If I've learned anything in the past 16-plus months, it is to enjoy every fleeting minute with my kid -- even the ones that make me want to rip my hair out at the follicles.

Because tomorrow, I am going to look up at the breakfast table at a six-year-old who his headed off to his first day of kindergarten. And one all too soon day after that, I am going to be helping my 18-year-old pack up his room for college.

(And for the record: On both those occasions, he will not be allowed to leave without at least SAYING goodbye to his mama.)

Scott, trying oatmeal for the first time.  Jan 2011

Scott, devouring his own turkey leg. December 2011.

The human garbage disposal

I grew up in a family of girls.
It wasn't until high school that I witnessed the awe-inspiring spectacle that was a teenage boy at the dinner table.
Now I am beginning to wonder if that tendency starts...early. Like say, five months.

Scott's always been a healthy milk drinker. He was regularly drinking six ounces every three to 3.5 hours when we decided to start him on solid food.
And now, I am truly amazed by how much my little Tank can pack away. I worry that I am overfeeding him. But he knows when he's hungry, and he has no problem turning his head away when he's had enough, so I try not to stress too much.

Hand over the bowl mommy. I'll show you how big boys eat.

Enough of that little baby spoon already! I am going in with both hands!

Jim is taking it more in stride. Maybe that's because he grew up in a house with three boys. He tells me how his parents could never keep food in the refrigerator. He and his brothers would come home and descend on that poor appliance like a herd of locusts, snatching up whatever they could get their hands on. A gallon of milk? Check. Turkey leg? Yum. Half a jar of peanut butter? Why not?

One day he sat on the couch and watched on his brother consume the better part of a bag of chips and an entire jar of salsa. In one sitting.

I must have the same look on my face as I feed my little guy dinner. I look at the daycare sheet and calculate. Milk for breakfast. A container of applesauce as a mid-morning snack. Milk for lunch. Half a container of sweet potatoes. More milk. And then here we are at dinner. Half a container of squash, two tablespoons of oatmeal -- mixed with two teaspoons of pears -- and more milk before bed.

Dinner. Yum.

Maybe its just a growth spurt. Or maybe I have a life-long healthy eater on my hands. I can already see the day I come home and discover that my refrigerator, well-stocked in the morning, is now a picked-over wasteland.

I'll dispatch Jim to Costco - and tell him to buy a couple jumbo sized bags of chips.