Not Yet

Last night Orion was in a great mood. He'd had some yogurt that was cleaned off his face with puppy kisses. He was giggling and smiling and kicking his legs. It seemed like a good time for a test run.

I laid him on his belly on the chaise lounge and his legs immediately started pumping. A couple of times he got his knees up under him only to splat flat on the cushion when he tried to push for forward motion. Eventually he started pushing hard enough with his legs (but not moving his arms) that he was scooting backwards toward the open end of the lounge. I asked Doombot to move to the end so he could catch him if he tried to slip off.

Since Doombot is conditioned to do whatever I tell him to when it comes to baby safety, he moved into spotter position with a quickness. Then I watched his face fall.

"No. Not yet," he said. He picked up the squirrel and snuggled him in close. "I'm not ready for him to crawl now. Maybe some other day."

We're both starting to realize what it will mean to have an only child. This is the only baby who will ever eat his first yogurt. The only baby that will ever lay on his tummy with his limbs flailing around. The only one to eat his first finger food, pick his first pumkin, and the only one (someday soon) to begin to crawl.

Today at lunch, a woman was at the table next us with her son. He looked like he was about 11 or 12 years old. He ordered and ate his sandwich just like Doombot. First listing off all of the things he didn't want on it, then reluctantly agreeing when his companion asks, "So, just meat and cheese?" Then, again just like Doombot, he got excited about the availability of baked potato soup. At that point I realized that someday that will be me. Picking up the Squirrel early from school on a blustery Friday, maybe for a doctor's appointment, then talking about his science project over a steamy cup of soup.

Certainly, that will hold its own joy, just as watching my baby grow into a real live person fills me with warm amazement every single day. I just can't help missing the tiny infant who was here and gone so quickly, who I'll never get to hold again.