The Disappearing Baby

My twenty-three month old son, Fyo, sits in his car seat in the car while my husband and I sit up front in our drive to the playground by my parents’ house.

            “Water, please.” He says. I hand him his water bottle. He sips on it and when he’s done, he hands it forward and says, “Thank you.”

            At the playground, Fyo climbs the ladders by himself while my husband and I just spot him. He slides himself down the slide and runs towards the swing.

            My friends have told me that at two years old, your child still has some baby-ness that your baby doesn’t fully disappear until the age of four.

            I don’t believe them.

            I look at my walking talking son who is now his own person with opinions and views of how he wants to do things. All I see is little boy. When he wants my attention, he calls Mom or he says “thank you” repeatedly or he says that he has to pee. When he’s hungry he asks for grapes, strawberries, carrots and biscuits. He picks out the clothes he wants to wear. He takes off his clothes and runs down the hallway naked and then back to the bedroom where he snuggles himself into bed and under the covers.

            “Are you cold?” I ask him.

            “Yes.” He says.

            “Do you want some pajamas?” I ask him.

            “No.” And with that he goes to sleep in the middle of the bed, covers around his shoulders.

            Probably my friends are right, and this is one of those tricks of perception that happen when you have children. When I visit my friend and her four-month old baby girl, we talk about how at four-months, it seems impossible that babies will grow into the twenty-three month old child wandering around her house with a knack for finding gallon sized containers of household chemicals. Probably when my son is four I will see how much more baby-ness has disappeared and think then that he is really all little boy.

            I hold my friend’s baby girl. She has that baby smell and soft skin and baby duck hair that I can’t help but nuzzle with my nose like I did with my own baby boy. I love every phase of my son’s life, but the first few months of his infancy remain my very favorite. Fyo sees me holding the baby; he comes over and leans in to give the baby a kiss. Then he asks to sit on my lap. I then nuzzle his hair. He smells like sun and outside and the strawberries he’s just eaten. His skin is still soft, but not infant soft. His knees, ankles and feet are dirty from playing outside.

            When my friend and I drive back from the museum, both her baby and Fyo are in the back seat in their respective car seats. Her baby is tired and fussing to fall asleep. My friend is singing to her to calm her down as we drive. Eventually, she goes to sleep.

            My friend looks in the rearview mirror at Fyo.

            “Fyo? Can you see the baby?” She asks him.

            “Yes.” He says.

            “Is the baby asleep?”

            “Yes.”

She looks in the mirror above the baby’s car seat.

            “He’s right.” She says.

            “Sing more.” Fyo says. We sing.

I turn back and look at him sitting in his seat smiling and waving his hands to the song. All I see is little boy. I remember once again that each phase comes with a bit of grieving the phase that just ended and excitement for the phase that is just beginning. I remember that I often feel both emotions at once.