I added this January pic (3 months!) because I realized I never shared it. Plus, this post needed some cuteness!
Staying at home is a little like the movie Groundhog Day.
I mix up a vat of formula at night, label the bottles, rock Coleson when he wakes up at 2am, and sing Zippity Do Da while rolling up the shades as the sun rises to help develop his circadian rhythm.
Watch him glug down bottle after bottle. Diaper changes. Let him stroke the fur in Pat the Bunny. Tummy time. Naps. Activity Mat. Meltdown #1 and #2.
Bath time. Massage time. Stories. Feel creeped out when the mom in Love You Forever uses a ladder to climb into her adult son's bedroom. Suddenly, think of Norman Bates and his mother. But then I get to the end and well up with tears in spite of myself. Circle of life, you know?
Lullaby. Prayers. Swaddle. Go downstairs to mix a new vat of formula. Repeat.
It's too easy to muddle through the routine and forget to really soak this time in, to preserve it for the future when I miss kissing the downy hair on the nape of his neck and peeling lint out of his baby rolls. So, I try to constantly remind myself to take mental snapshots of Coleson.
Click! I try to savor a mental shot of his his face breaking into a grin while he kicks his feet at the floor piano mat. I know someday I'll miss the annoying, mechanical Ring Around the Rosies music that blasts from this Fisher Price toy.
When his eyes widen at the view of our snow covered street, I hold him there for a long time and think, "What is it like to see such pure white snow for the first time?" and try to peep out through his eyes. The houses suddenly look extra magical all blanketed.
Click! He squawks in protest when doing tummy time on my stomach. "You're okay! Don't be such a baby!" I croon, feeling clever. He squawks again... and then barfs down my cleavage.
Touché, Coleson. Looks like you had the last laugh on that one. But I reason that at least it already is a funny mental video I can play back when you are slamming the door of your room one day.
Yes, I realize I am sentimentalizing my baby's vomit. I've become so soft!
Everyone's #1 advice (besides to sleep when the baby sleeps) is the same. Person after person has trilled, "Enjoy every moment because it goes by so fast!"
But, of course, even with an actual camera, it's hard to hold on to every experience. I'm already nostalgic for how he used to fall asleep on me. Correction: I sobbed "I can't eeeven calm my bay-beeee!" to Dan one night when Cole flailed and become agitated the more I rocked him. A photo of him snoozing in the crook of my arm is not the same as actually hearing his sleepy sigh, feeling the weight of his sack of potatoes body.
I realize I'm more like the aforementioned creepy mother who crawls through her son's window than I thought, but Coleson could fall asleep on me every evening for the next few years, and I still wouldn't store up enough memories of holding my sleeping baby.
But, of course, even with an actual camera, it's hard to hold on to every experience. I'm already nostalgic for how he used to fall asleep on me. Correction: I sobbed "I can't eeeven calm my bay-beeee!" to Dan one night when Cole flailed and become agitated the more I rocked him. A photo of him snoozing in the crook of my arm is not the same as actually hearing his sleepy sigh, feeling the weight of his sack of potatoes body.
I realize I'm more like the aforementioned creepy mother who crawls through her son's window than I thought, but Coleson could fall asleep on me every evening for the next few years, and I still wouldn't store up enough memories of holding my sleeping baby.
It's kind of like the children's book The Snowy Day (to borrow from another one of Coleson's bedtime stories). After a day of having a blast making snow angels and funny footprints, the little boy puts a snow ball in his pocket to treasure as a souvenir. He's dejected when it melts away.
But to enjoy every moment? That's a lofty goal, don't you think? I don't always "live in the now", as psyche 101 students and self-help books put it. Nope. I wonder what student my colleagues are bitching about in the resource room as I sanitize all the little parts to the Dr. Brown's bottle. I have to force myself to put down my cell phone when Coleson's feeding, realizing I am missing his gaze as I browse french toast recipes on Pinterest. I think "Please answer... please answer" when I dial my sister during Cole's naptime. I feel cabin fever as I fold laundry, annoyed by the pea green paint in our dining room. Why did I pick such a drab color? It always looks like a cloudy day in here.
That's the deal, though. I'd wager that even the most zen minded person can get distracted and forget to enjoy every moment when folding an Everest pile of underwear.
I guess that brings me to the title of this post.
One of Coleson's little socks has made a home in my top dresser drawer. Dan must have put it there after mistaking it for one of my white workout ones while sorting, and it has stayed nestled there for the past month. The first time I grabbed it and crammed my toes in, I was confused for a moronic millisecond, all Why has my sock shrunk to doll size? But then I remembered the twelve pound little guy sleeping in the other room, smiled, and returned it back to my drawer.
When I root around for a pair to go running, I keep accidentally grabbing it, realizing it doesn't match mine, and tossing it back in. I smile every time I'm inconvenienced. Coleson's other sock is going to stay mate-less because I'll never be returning this one to the nursery's dresser.
It's almost like this sock has its own know-it-all personality, squealing...
LOOK HOW tiny I AM!
Can you BELIEVE you have a baby so small? Gosh, I'm even baggy on him right now!
Coleson won't fit in me for long, you know??
Enjoy every second because it goes SO fast!"
So I'm told.
.jpg)
