On Sunday, I spent the afternoon playing with the Chipmunk. The weather was beautiful and I had all the windows in the house open. With nesting still in full force, I decided to go through his clothes drawers and pull out all the stuff that didn’t fit him.
It was a lot of stuff.
Jammies, tee shirts, shorts, pants. Clothes he only wore once before the weather warmed up. Clothes that looked adorable on him. Clothes he’ll never fit in again. I stuck them all in an empty drawer for baby brother, walked out of his bedroom, and collapsed in a pile of soggy, hormonal tears.
Chipmunk can spot Emotional Mama from a mile away. He took off across the room and said “Mama, what’s wrong? You sad! I kiss a’ make it all better.”
I didn’t want to worry him, so I scooped him up and let him kiss me and held him tight.
Two or three weeks and we’re a family of four, a family with a little brother. Chipmunk will be a big brother. But he’ll always be my first little man, my buddy. He’s getting big so fast—too fast. This is the pain etched on the faces of the mothers and fathers you’ve known all your life. This is the pain you’ve never understood. This is the gripping ache of joyful-sorrow.
We lingered in my bed this morning, cuddling and talking about his upcoming day at school and the dark and cold and monsters and daddy being gone for work already and his “froggy” (footsie) pajamas and how to be a kittycat and a dogdog. Eventually he slipped out of bed and pushed the door open and ran off to play with his cars.
I want to hold you forever, biddlebean.
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