Ever since about 6 this evening, everything the kid did, I watched him do and thought, "This is the last day you'll have as a one-year-old." I couldn't help it. It's weird; when he turned one, I wasn't this emotional. I didn't count down the hours. Then again, he was still a "baby" at 1. There was no real change for me.
When he fell asleep, I cried knowing that he is going to wake up as a 2-year-old. It's a silly thing -- how is tonight any different from last night, or tomorrow night? -- and yet another thing that didn't really hit me when he turned one. But today, it makes my heart hurt.
Staying up late cleaning, mopping, baking, wrapping presents -- it all just kills me with how much it hurts. How exciting it is. How happy I am. How much I miss. How much I'll never experience with him again. How much I have to look forward to. How much more I love him, 2 years later, than the day I first held him in my arms.
My little baby is turning 2. My first child, my miracle child. When I gave birth to him, I loved him out of what was, essentially, a biological imperative. I can't even explain that rush of love I felt when I saw him, kissed his face, touched his tiny hands. I'd bonded with him over 9 months of creating, growing, nourishing. I finally got to see him. To name him. To know him. To learn that he is a mellow child, a cuddler, stubborn, a bit of a perfectionist, a thrill-seeker, a mama's boy. Over two years I've watched him grow, seen his personality flower, and now he's big.
He used to just lay there in my arms and sleep. He used to hold his hands up to his head when sleeping. Or eating. Or doing nothing at all. He used to flail and jerk because he couldn't control his arms or legs. He used to stare at the ceiling fan, because apparently it's way cooler than I ever was. He used to curl up like he was still in my womb. He used to root for breast or bottle -- which was hilarious and sad at the same time.
And now?
Now, he wants to watch what he wants to watch. He wants to eat what he wants to eat. He doesn't like it if his food is cut too small. He doesn't like it if we don't let him eat with a fork (which he can't even use well). He doesn't like it if we give him the blue train instead of the silver one. He likes it best if we cuddle before a nap. He loves to give kisses, but only when he wants to. He giggles at farts, coughs, and sneezes. He cries if you go to the bathroom and don't invite him along.
He's got a personality all his own. I call him my son without hesitation (and damn was that weird for the first year or so). I call myself mommy. I write down "mother" as the answer to "relationship to patient" -- and I don't even think about how weird it is anymore. He is the child who made me a mother, and he's not a baby anymore.
He isn't 24 months old. He's 2 years old. He's a kid now. I love it -- I do. It's been amazing to watch this progression, and I'm going to be doing it again in just a few short months! But that doesn't make it any less bittersweet.
It's so crazy that I feel all these insane emotions over his second birthday, but not his first. I'm sure it's just pregnancy hormones. And now my husband is laughing at me for being so sentimental. :) But that's okay. He says, "Hey, you know we're having another one, right?" Yes, we are! But this next one will be a whole new experience, with a whole new person.
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