He’s so beautiful when he sleeps. When trying to fall asleep, he curls into a tight ball, huddling under the billion baby blankets I HAD to buy for him, because what if I hadn’t yet found the one he would choose for a lovey, and I’m keeping him from the blanket that will provide a sense of security for him through his childhood? (He has picked one finally, a brown one with tan elephants, and in so choosing, has completely validated my incessant need to buy more blankets than an orphanage would need.) (I probably shouldn’t say here that I still buy him blankets, because I don’t want to admit to myself that he is not a baby that needs baby blankets anymore, and who can expect me to give up that adorable baby aisle, anyway?) (I am totally deviating from my original topic.) When he wakes up, however, he is always sprawled in glorious abandon, always on his back, with at least one adorable (I can’t even being to describe how adorable) foot dangling between two slats of his crib. (Just writing this, I’m starting to get some of those violent feelings that are alluded to in the title. How can I not, when his precious, adorable little baby feet are being discussed? What mother, I ask you, can gaze at her child’s feet, and not feel overwhelmed with the sheer cuteness of the little stubby toes and the tiny wrinkles and creases across their still unbelievably soft soles?) (I have to admit that I worry when in the throes of playing with and kissing his feet that my child will grow to have an unhealthy foot fetish. Then I worry that I think about things like that. What is wrong with me?)
Stuffed animals give me a complex, too. Not the stuffed animals themselves, mind you. No stuffed animal, no matter how cute, causes painful palpitations or violent urges within me (and if they did, I don’t even want to contemplate the number of issues I would clearly have.) The issue arises when a stuffed animal is handed to my child. My child, who hates hugs from mostly everyone (including me most of the time), who is completely uninterested in cars and trucks and who has no interest in real live animals, will suddenly turn into the poster child for a Hallmark commercial, and will stretch his arms as wide as they will go, his eyes sparkling so brightly that I am blinded in the glare, and upon contact with whatever chosen stuffed animal will hug it immediately to his chest (in a hug that I can only dream of one day receiving), burying his face into its fur, and letting out such a contended sigh that we, his bystander parents, can only pretend we have hopes of putting that stuffed animal back on the shelf it came from. (We’ve made the mistake of trying to exchange the stuffed animal in his embrace with a cheaper one, but our kid is smart-while tightly holding onto Fluffy Giraffe with one arm, he’ll extend the other and immediately snatch Equally Fluffy Elephant and envelope him in his ever growing embrace. His love for stuffed animals knows no bounds.) While half of me is crushed that when I hold out my arms for him, I only get a half-hearted attempt at a hug (which is really more of a “ok, you can touch me, and as soon as your 2 second touch is over, I will hurl myself away from you as forcefully as possible), the other half dies a little inside at the intense adorableness of such a display. I won’t lie, I also take a bit of pride in that cuteness. We may shell out much more money than necessary for stuffed animals, but who hands them to him when we are in public? And who makes sure there are a sufficient amount of bystanders present to properly acknowledge and admire my child’s fantastic display of being what, I’m sure, they assume is the Perfect Child? But I won’t name names or point fingers. Who could blame said person?
Feet. Baby blankets.Stuffed animals. Who knew these things would have such an impact in my life? These little things…how could I know, when preparing for a baby, that amongst the exhaustion, baby blues, poopy diapers (I had pretty pessimistic (and what I preferred to view as realistic) expectations for having a baby, hoping I’d be prepared…HA! But more on that another time), that these small things would hold such significance, and fill me with so much incredible, overwhelming love for this child who has taken over my life? It is a crazy kind of love, even. I stand over him and watch him sleep, and although right before his nap, he received a spanking for attempting to destroy (you name it. If it’s expensive, valuable, or irreplaceable, it’s been attempted), at this exact moment, my chest feels tight and my heart feels too small to handle the shocking ocean of love that is threatening to overwhelm me. What won’t I do for him?? I will work two jobs if I have to, so that he can go to a good school. I will give up watching ‘adult’ TV, so that he is not exposed to inappropriate behavior that he will unfortunately be exposed to later in life. I will watch Veggie Tales over and over so that he becomes familiar with the stories in the bible, instead of filling his head with mindless cartoons. I will fiercely protect his diet, because I care more about his health than whether he’s happy with me, despite being informed I’m ‘no fun’ for not letting him eat a ton of chocolate (he had a few bites! I’m not a monster. Sheesh.) Of course, it’s not just because of the cute little things that bring about these decisions. However, they are some pretty awesome perks that I like to dwell on from time to time, because it’s so much nicer to picture his precious little baby feet, and how he looks when he’s padding across the room, dragging his lovey behind him, than focusing on the temper tantrum he threw at lunch, or the fact I’m pretty sure he’s hoarding his poop, and controlling it’s excretions, so that I have to change a poopy diaper every fifteen minutes of the morning (don’t tell me to wait-he’s too smart for that. He will wait, too.)
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