Collin is nine months old tomorrow. Nine months?
Oh, I’m sorry. I just spaced out a little, because I realized that somehow the little infant I spent 24 hours heaving out of my body is almost a year old. If he’s nine months old, that means in just three months he will be a year!
Ok, sorry. In all seriousness, I am in love with being a mom of an older baby. Having a young baby is a lot of fun, but I’m finally able to get a thing or two done when Collin sleeps instead of flop on the couch, drained and exhausted, with a line of drool falling down my chin and an, “I’m sorry, the number you have reached is no longer in service” message running through my head.
I love having an older baby. I love the giant, slobbery baby kisses all over my face. I love the raspberries he blows on my belly. I love that he looks for me when I’m gone, and the way he smears food all over his face when he eats, and the way he talks to us in the backseat of the car. I love when he crawls to me and tries to climb up my legs into my arms. I love the way he waves at everything: the lamp, the cat, the window, the toilet. I love his courage and sense of adventure, but that he still cries for me whenever he’s afraid. I love the way he rolls onto his belly while he sleeps and curls his limbs underneath himself until he looks like a sleepy turtle.
I love Collin for who he is, every minute of the day (and night), and I’m counting on that to help me make it through his toddler years.