What I would like to know is where my tiny baby went. Because I bought him a spoon and a sweet potato this week, and I don’t think I’m ready for either.
He is more than ready, of course – to the point that Grabby McGrabberson is no longer allowed to sit on our knees when we eat – but it feels like the end of an era to admit he’s a real food person. That means he’s a real person person. I’ll blink and suddenly he’ll be voicing opinions and needing haircuts, which I will administer myself and very poorly.
Yesterday we bought the utensils and little freezer pots, and today we ransacked Tesco’s root vegetable section for supplies. I got one of everything so he can taste test, though it occurs to me that washing out my food mixer after pureeing one carrot at a time is going to get tedious. On Saturday we’re buying a high chair, sitting him in it, and showing him the business end of a parsnip.
In the meantime, it looks like we’re getting a pet rabbit.
The thought that I might smell his head and it might not smell of baby one day soon makes me want to cry a little bit. I want to squeeze every last ounce of babyness out of him, pore over it, drink it all in properly, before I let him get any bigger. But in the spirit of embracing his little-boyness, here is a list I have been composing mentally for a while: the things I can’t wait till he’s old enough to do.
1. build a fort in the living room. I have big ideas for that one.
2. go on the tall slide at Prospect Park.
3. set off elaborate paper aeroplanes from the balcony in our flat.
4. put on loud music and make him dance with me.
5. finger paint.
6. read him Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
7. bake stained glass window biscuits.
8. sit him in front of Toy Story.
9. have a barbeque with Daddy by the river.
10. practice writing his name.
I danced with him to Simon and Garfunkel the other morning, and he smiled as wide as his face would go. It was exquisite. Three cheers for boyhood. Pass me a parsnip.