Today my boy is 15 months old. I can hardly believe it, that this wild-haired redhead running through the living room, chanting “dog dog dog dog,” is the same tiny, dark-haired, serious baby who was in the new mom trenches with me last fall.
He is pretty amazing, at least in my eyes: so smart, funny, curious, busy. He loves reading books. He helps me with the laundry. He claps for me when I sing. He shows me his muscles, flexing his little arms and grunting. It is SPECTACULAR.
What I’m coming to realize is that being his mom is more than just raising him, teaching him, loving him. It’s so much more than any of that. I am the custodian of his entire world. Someday, when he looks back on his childhood, what he will see is the world I created for him: the things we did together, the home we made, the experiences we shared.
That’s a pretty heady responsibility.
But I love it.
Christmas is coming, and it almost seems like our first one together – last Christmas we were in survival mode and he was far too tiny to notice any of the hubbub. Not this year, though – Monday morning, he walked into the living room and saw the tree his father and I had put up the night before and it stopped him in his tracks. He smiled, and looked at me. And smiled even bigger, like the moment was too good not to share.
There are memories I want him to have and I’m so excited to start creating those memories, to shape those future recollections of a childhood filled with fun and wonder and joy and a mom who couldn’t have loved him more.
