I was thinking today how people have their own baby comfort zones (when’s yours?), and how mine’s definitely not with actual babies.
Oh, I loved every inch of him from the beginning, don’t get me wrong. I still squeal over his little newborn outfits and rewatch his three-month videos. But I was deeply, continually anxious at first, mostly about being in charge of a tiny, still-tiny, yes-still-really-tiny-is-he-ever-going-to-get-fatter boy who wouldn’t eat and threw everything up and seemed so breakable, all the time. The older he got, the more of his personality he inhabited, the more I thought oh yes. Oh yes. I know you after all, Henricus Rex. We can do this.
You know how people yearn for their three-day-old to come back, all downy skin and kitten yawns? I don’t think I’m one of those people.
I think I will yearn for fourteen months.
This, now: if there is a better age than this I will eat the piece of banana he stashed underneath Sir Prance-A-Lot last week and hoped it was gone forever. This throwing chubby arms around my neck. This wriggling backwards on his belly to back down the stairs, and getting the angle wrong and backing somewhere else entirely. This rummaging in the fridge for salad cream (he doesn’t even like salad cream). This hour before bed when he is sat on our laundry bin and we are finally, properly making each other laugh on purpose. This certainty that he will never run out of things in our flat on which to live dangerously.
So I will take fourteen months and I will keep it for myself, thank you very much. Fourteen months is my baby comfort zone. I am in the game. Except that I have loved every phase more than the one that came before it, so I can’t guarantee I won’t be claiming fifteen months as well.
I suppose I’m saying that I think this is all pretty great.