A few days ago, I picked up D to carry him to the bathroom. He had a cold, and said he couldn’t walk because his “legs are breaking down.” He tucked his head into my neck, and I felt the totally familiar coming home of my baby, the cuddling up of an entire being in the space between my arms and chest. We passed by a mirror in the hall, and instead of a baby in my arms, I saw legs hanging down almost to my knees, a broad back that eclipsed me in the mirror, and a head almost the same size as mine reaching around to the back of my neck. It was disconcerting. Who is this giant?? And I realized with a jolt that the hours I used to spend with a baby in my arms, in my lap, or sleeping on my chest have waned to a tiny fraction of what they once were. Nothing filled my soul like a baby sleeping on my chest. Those hours are not coming back. It’s just not as comfortable anymore. They sit on my lap for books, and I can’t see the pages for their heads. In fact, when I carry my kids, my legs are the ones breaking down now.
Today is about change. And loss. And mourning. It’s about the day that these babies, magnificent star beings, wide-eyed wonders, cuddly little nuggets, became… kids. Again and again, I find myself saying, “Who are these BOYS (or men, or monsters) and what have you done with my babies?!”
Then, in the dark of his room last night, D said quietly, “I wish I was a baby.”
He feels it too. Everything is different. I wrap my arms around him, and tell him he’ll always be my baby. He’s not fooled. He says he wants to be a real baby. Nor does he appreciate Madeleine L’Engle’s wisdom that “the great thing about getting older is you never lose the ages you’ve been.” I lay on his bed in the dark, and we mourn the loss of babydom together.
It slays me that the boys won’t remember those first years when we fell madly in love with them. I tell myself that they will know what it feels like to be enveloped in love, to be held, to be cherished, and that experience will carry forward. My cousin once talked about how the secret to raising great kids is keeping their attention bucket, or love bucket, full. When kids act out, or withdraw, or do pretty much anything that catches your attention, it’s probably because their bucket needs filling. It’s a parent’s job to notice and keep that bucket full. When they were babies, every moment was spent filling their buckets, every act was an act of love. Now, it’s hard to feel the love when doling out discipline or trying to get everyone out the door. The acts of love require a little more intention, a conscious effort to pull away from the other things on my mind in order to really focus on them. There was nothing else on my mind when they were little. That was part of the bliss.
It’s as if our family membership to the baby bubble club has expired, and we’re all out in the cold wondering what to do. Is it possible that being nostalgic over a lost childhood kicks in with consciousness around 4-years-old?
I asked the twins what they remember about being babies. They both got little grins, and wouldn’t answer. Then they took turns curling up in my lap, with a head pressed against my heart, while the other crawled up onto my shoulders from behind. The conversation quickly turned to all the things that are different. They can pour their own water. They use the potty. They are SO TALL and SO STRONG, and can PLAY so much better. So, yea, I think they miss being able to fit in my arms the same way my arms miss having them there. But, there are a whole lot of cool, fun new abilities to think about and look forward to. Looking forward is way more exciting. May this never, ever change.
Mamagrit 