Looking at a friend's blog and pictures about her brand new baby boy have made me thoughtful this morning, watching my beloved Macklin toodling around the house. I see him climbing up on the chair and trying to get on the kitchen table, yelling, "Daaah!" and I can't imagine anything else. This is how it will always be. He'll be a baby, beloved by all his elder siblings, vocalizing without communicating, not able to walk well enough to outrun me, always getting into mischief.
And then I look around at all his elder siblings, staring at him in outright adoration, and I know this is just a brief snapshot in history. I feel like this is the moment, this is what it's all about, this is why I am at home and why I became a mother, and yet someday five years down the road I won't even be able to recall this except in a fuzzy, dim sort of way. He'll move on and grow. He already has. Once my baby boy, just like Jenn's, was brand new, and all he needed was milk and to be held. Before that he was inside me. Before that, he wasn't. He simply didn't exist in any way measurable by Earthly techniques. And yet here he is, yelling "No!" and wrinkling his nose in his cute Macklin way, the entire household revolving around him happily as if he were our sun.
He's a professional walker now, he could do it for a living. He has not yet mastered the art of running, but he walks in a little toddler jog, and there's only one speed. Unless he's just awakened, then he walks slowly and stumbly – otherwise, he's off with a purpose! He grabs toys away from his siblings, flashes a look of mischief and a baby babble, and toddles off fully expecting to be chased and played with. He climbs up on all our chairs and sofas (even the toilet when the bathroom doors are left open) and from there onto the tables or counters if he can maneuver it. He hasn't figured out how to open the toilet lid yet (*whew*) but he flushes all day long. His favorite toys are my real phone, which he can work almost as well as I can, and his toy cell phone which he got for Christmas – it beeps and rings and has voice messages and he loves it. Oh, and anything his siblings are holding, from American Girls to Legos.
He is still breastfeeding, but less and less. He loves food. He eats virtually everything we do with few exceptions, and increasingly he's satisfied with food when he's hungry, and doesn't demand a nursing afterward. He's been sleeping through the night for a couple of months now, with still a nursing before bed, but that's getting to the point that it's just for comfort and not for belly filling. The past few nights he fell asleep immediately on the first side, and didn't need the second. And last night, for the first time in his little life, he woke up in the middle of the night, cried, and put himself back to sleep before I could get to him!
He isn't saying much that's identifiable beyond "No!" He vocalizes a lot, sings even, and intones in ways that mimic the way we say words, but he doesn't even bestir himself to affix a name to me, let alone his siblings. There's no need for that yet, since all he has to do is choose someone to walk to, smile, raise his little baby arms, and be lifted and carried wherever he wants to get whatever his heart desires. He is in a stage that is at once difficult and adorable: half the time he's getting into mischief, emptying cupboards, scratching DVDs, ripping dust jackets and book pages, getting stuck, climbing, playing in makeup, etc.; the other half he's smiling sweetly, laughing, wrinkling his nose, and otherwise charming us so completely that the first half doesn't matter. And yes, I'd like to freeze him in this moment, right now, forever.
Yet I see his brothers and sisters in various likewise wonderful stages of growth, and I'm equally delighted. Kyrie speaks so clearly now and communicates so well, and she loves to dress up and carry around dolls and be wonderful and marvelous. Ethan is all snips and snails and puppy dog tails, telling us jokes and playing everything his bigger brothers play, informing me daily that he doesn't like to make his bed or clean his room. He's our little comedian. Jackson is learning to read, and it is a wonder to see the comprehension on his cute little face, aglow with a no-front-teeth smile. Libby is energetic, standing on that stretch of sand where she's no longer the little child that can be tossed in the air or spun around for an airplane ride, and yet not big enough to do the tossing or the spinning. She's just decided to save all her money until she has enough for a horse, and she wants to open a savings account. Christian is working on his first two scout merit badges, always so conscientious about school and responsibilities. And Emma, dear Emma, is thirteen and rushing headlong toward womanhood, clutching her dolls and girly things to her as she hurtles toward maturity.
Every stage is a joy and a wonder. I want Macklin to pass through all of them. I want to watch every moment. I want to sit in my rocking chair someday holding his babies, telling him how much I have loved being his mother. I want to treasure every single moment in my heart and my memory, and not let any of it dim with time or fade into forgetfulness. But I also wish I could maintain forever the incommunicable joy of holding my own baby whenever I want, and having another tiny human being be as delighted with me as I am with him.
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