motherhood, and henry at almost 20 months, means…

1. waking up to sounds of soft, whispered hums from hucka’s crib  -
“baa, baa, baa, baa, yesth…” (baa, baa, black sheep)
or “da, da, ce, ee, ef, da, ah, ah, enemo, pee,...” (to the tune of the alphabet song).
or commanding shouts of “mama!” or “mama! ah poo poo. (silence) mama!”

2. lots of patient conversations about why we do not throw our food onto the floor – however “done!” we are and urgent we feel about it. and yes, that pile of crumbs and ketchup there is a big “messth”, but no, it is not okay to brush your hand in wide strokes back and forth across the “messth”.  not funny, heart of mine, not in the least.

3. building lots and lots of blanket houses, burrowing in cupboard houses, and coming inches from squishing bitty fingers while shutting closet house doors. everything is henry’s “ouse” these days and so we often lose him for minutes at a time, just before we spread out searching in all of his favorite haunts, following after his echoed voice coming from one corner of the apartment or another, “ouse, mama. ouse!”

4. mango popsicle juice dribbling down a baby chin. we keep large stocks of fruit snacks and stick pretzels, for spearing, on hand for when the urge strikes. we’re always searching for the right balance of delicious enough that mom might eat it, but healthy enough that we still pass some of our nutritional standards. sometimes, that looks like hot dogs, cut in itty bitty bites and loaded with ketchup -  you win tonight, buddy. but tomorrow, you will eat all of your strawberries, yogurt, and potatoes, because we’ve got standards to uphold, you see.

5. holding on real tight to this henry, just as he is. all wiggly, cuddly, inquisitive pieces of him. he hit a growth stop a few months ago, and so now my “huge”, chunky babe is this itsy little boy, with fast, strong legs that zip him to and fro. he’ll sit atop mountains of books, turning the pages one by one for many henry-hours (which converts roughly to 23 minutes). “ee end!” he declares, as he slaps the cover closed and shoots the book atop another growing pile. “ay anold, mama!” so we sing “old mcdonald”, over and over while we sift through the pages and point to the chicken, cows, and flowers.

there should be a special capsule into which these enchanted moments are stored away for safe keeping and later perusal, so i would always be able to smell his fresh-out-of-the-bath damp hair and feel his slippery, squishy lips on mine. but alas, there is only this time we have together, an ever fading memory, and this crazy space of digital magic that will have to do, for now.