I recite the verse to myself often while rocking my own baby. (He loves the rocking.) And I've thought about the sentiment while wishing I could keep our apartment at a better cleanliness level than Not Disgusting while still having time to be a human jungle gym for The Bairn and to marvel at his new-found skills--rolling himself against the couch and then trying to roll in the same direction just a bit more, eating bananas with great gusto, singing at a pitch that pierces my brain.
I feel the truth of all those e-mail forwards full of flying baby angels and Comic Sans about the preciousness of babies and my fleeting time as a mother of a 5-month-old boy. I already miss the tiny newborn with the zombie arms and I mourn in advance for the day when The Bairn no longer props his little feet with the tiny toes up on the arm of the rocker and proceeds to sing a loud and sleepy song while I sing my own (more melodious?) songs to him at night.
This would be a good point at which to insert a photo of me rocking The Bairn, but I don't have one, so how about a couple of shots from last night?
I call this one Solemn Baby with Duck
and this one Daddy Pretends Baby is Cob of Corn.
Soooo, I'm saying that I need a maid.
3 comments:
But you can look forward to him being a big strapping lad. I look (up) at my wee boy, now 6 foot tall and built like the proverbial brick outhouse and it's just a miracle!
That's true! I expect him to be very very tall.
I see the web is awash with ways of predicting a child's adult height. In the far off internetless times when I had babies I was told by other mothers to measure the child's height on their 2nd birthday and double it. Was reasonably accurate for my 2.
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