And he’s heavy. Now that I’m unpregnant, I can once again lift him and drag him up the stairs to his nap, but he’s so long and big and boy-like now. His legs hang down to my knees and I huff and puff at the weight of him. It’s freaking me out.
I knew that having a newborn in the house would be an adjustment, that it would shake things up a bit, but I was not prepared for how big Finny’s little tush would seem after changing size 1 diapers all day. I was not prepared for how large and solid his head would feel after sticking a tiny infant head through a onesie three times a day. I didn’t know that on my way home from the hospital, Finny would eat the Wonderland cake that would make him grow into the Giant Finny he has become.
And it’s not just his physical size, it’s what he says and does and everything that seems to be happening all at once. It’s wonderful and fun and amazing, but it’s also putting knots in my stomach and making me feel a little queezy and woozy and teary-eyed.
Just this morning I was singing a lesser known song from the Broadway version of Annie, a song that I rarely sing, and as I began “I’d like to thank you…” Finny finished the line with “Herbert Hoover!!!” Herbert Hoover! Like, no big deal, Mom. Why don’t you go ahead and teach me the names of all 44 U.S. presidents as well as the entire musical score to the Broadway version of Annie? I’m bored here.
Yesterday, we were listening to our Pandora Beatles station as we molded crocodiles out of Play-Doh and after listening to The Who and Credence Clearwater Revival, “All My Loving” came on and Finny immediately perked up and said, “Oh, there they are!” as if he’d just been waiting for his old buddies John, Paul, George and Ringo to chime in.
The poor kid has even picked up on my knack for nonchalantly misplacing things about the house. Ask him a “Where is it?” question and you’ll almost always get the same answer. “Finny, where are your shoes?” The response, a decisive,“They’re somewhere.”
And now preschool registration has begun and we’re talking about Finny carrying a backpack and having a cubby and hanging up his coat and it’s all so adorable and exciting and depressing and horrifying at the same time.
My little Finny! How I want to see you grow up! But how I wish I could keep little versions of you at all your various adorable ages around the house and take them out to play with them whenever I want. I could take out 9-month-old Finny when I want a taste of you with your smiley head of duck fluff. I could take out 14-month-old Finny for a taste of those wobbly little first steps in your soft, tiny baby sneakers. And I could take out 28-month-old Finny in all his enthusiastic sweetness and have him wrap his arms around my leg and proclaim, “I want hold you, Mommy!” and then give me his version of a kiss, which is nothing more than a gentle head butt to the cheek, with a forced fish-lip pucker into the air.
Maybe this is what Octo-Mom was trying to achieve. Some kind of small child Mecca where cuteness abounds and adorable little faces show up at every turn. No, thanks. I don’t want 14 kiddos roaming about my house all at once, stepping all over each other and eating old Cheerios off the floor, pulling on each other and on me. What I want is a plain and simple time machine, something I could tuck away in the corner of my dining room, something that would make it impossible for me to be sad when I realize that you are in fact doing exactly the thing you’re supposed to be doing—growing up.
Finny, my little gargantuan toddler, keep growing if you must. In the meantime, Stephen Hawking, wrestle me a wormhole and a super speedy rocket and help me figure out how to keep him little just a little bit longer.
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