Somebody turned two.
And it's surreal, how fast his babyhood is tripping by.
The interrupted nights and frantic days are blurring into a rollicking childhood.
I want to bottle these moments, slow them into something I can sip instead of gulp.
I want to remember the dawning wonder of the early days of pregnancy,
when I was filled with terror that slowly turned into acceptance and then, joy.
I want to cradle his newborn body again, and smell the top of his head,
and stare at his perfect little square face.
He was so cute that I couldn't stare at him enough.
But I get today.
Today I have a sturdy boy who dances to the music of Little Big Town.
Today I get to hear him say "Mama." He's only been saying it for a few weeks.
Talking is not his strong suit.
Today, when I pull his shirt over his head,
he'll giggle and squirm because he knows I like to kiss his armpits.
Trust me, they're the only armpits in this house worth kissing.
Today, if we're in the kitchen and I stoop down to his level and say,
"Should we go outside?"
His face will wreath in smiles and grins,
he'll be overcome with excitement,
and we'll be off to the grand outdoors,
his favorite place to be.
Happy birthday, little man.
(Here is the first post I wrote after Malachi was born).