Turns out the dink can put down some toast like a wolverine. After he woke up about four times from 3 a.m. on this morning, I called it quits and started the day a little earlier than usual, not long after 5. Instead of his normal oatmeal and fruit, I offered him a lightly toasted piece of wheat bread. No butter, no crust--just the scratchy and soft plain stuff that I pulled apart in bite-size pieces, hardly able to keep up with the rate he was shoveling them into his mouth. Just another sign that he's outpacing my slow, deliberate attempts to make him grow up slowly, and not rush too fast into all of this big boy stuff.
A few days ago, I got a notice at the daycare that the dink would be moving to the walker room in two short weeks. Two weeks! He won't even be one years old by then. And the list of dos and don'ts was startling--no pacis, no bottles, must wear shoes, must sleep on a mat, only one nap a day, needs finger food... I actually sobbed in the car on the way home that day, reading the walker room schedule at red lights: eat, play, music, outside, eat, play, sleep, play, eat... At least I won't feel bad now when I pick him up (finally, gloriously, RESTED), and drag him on errands and walks and expect him to bang on the same pots and spatulas in the kitchen, because at least I'll know that he's had sufficient time to play. But still, it's bittersweet, and for now mostly bitter. To expect all of these adult things from my precious, innocent, little baby. From that little tiny thing with the amazingly sweet breath that used to sleep with his eyes open and get swaddled so tight to sleep in his crib that he looked like a mummy. Or an Indian. My sweet, sweet boy growing up too fast. These are the pangs I've heard about, this is what they mean when ladies I don't even know catch me in the kitchen at the office and sigh, "they grow up so fast." There's no unique way to say it. You can't cradle and rock and caress your baby forever. But you certainly don't start loving him any less.