Adam laid happily on his blanket last night, grabbing my toes. I didn’t really pay attention until he pinched my toe – really hard! He’s my baby, but he’s not an infant.
I looked down to see that he had inserted my big toe in his mouth and his two lower pirahna teeth were shredding it. And this from the boy who will have nothing to do with holding his own bottle.
Things like that gross Ismael out to the fullest. Our conversation was riveting:
Isma: “Did you wash your toes?”
Me: “Yes, in that driving hailstorm I just went out in to move the car to the carport. You could have done that for me you know.”
Isma: “Wash the boy’s mouth out.”
And so goes another exciting evening in our home.
But lately, I’ve looked at my ever-changing, almost eight month old son, and I have the growing sense that infancy as we have known it is over. He can roll over now, but he won’t cuddle into sleep on my chest any more. He can sit up, but he can’t wear those darling little baby clothes. He can eat some more substantial food, but he can’t fit into his infant carrier seat.
Of course, I want him to grow up, but I think I want a few more months of infancy first.
