Saturday, August 16, 2014

Home is Where the Toddler Is

I've taught my child a new party trick.  It goes like this:

ME:  "Sweetie, how old are you?"
MY SON:  "Two!"
ME:  "And how old is Mommy?"
MY SON:  "Twenty-nine!"

Our son turned two at the end of June, and I swear, every day he blows our minds with what he can say and do.  His vocabulary is growing exponentially, and is so advanced, I think he knows enough words to get a job at the local Duane Reade, should it come to that.  (And with the price of preschool in NYC, it just might.)  He strings together crazy long sentences like, "Daddy took our car away, Metrocard ride bus go see Rory's house OK."  (In my husband's defense, "our car" was a ZipCar, and had to be returned.)

His sense of humor is getting more refined, too.  He makes so many faces-his latest one involves kind of a coy pucker- a face reminiscent of Dr. Evil or Pee Wee Herman.  He pairs it with a sideways glance- and he knows it's hilarious.  His laugh is a genuine belly laugh, and sounds like tinkling bells or a happy waterfall, or maybe angels and fairies playing ping pong.  Something damn adorable and whimsical, I can tell you that.

I am more in love with our son now than I think I have ever been, and I'm dying a tiny bit inside because I'm going to leave him for five nights while I go out of town to shoot a film. 

Aaaaaaaggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.  That's me screaming from way upstate. Can you hear me?

My mother in law is coming to town to lend my husband a hand for a few days, and I know my son will be in the excellent care of his daddy and grandma, one does things like Mommy does them.

Mommy knows how he likes his avocado cut, how long spaghetti noodles should be, and the perfect jelly-to-peanut butter ratio for his PB&J.  Mommy packs the perfect bag for outings (usually) and keeps a few surprises hidden away for when emotions run high- usually his, though sometimes mine. (Long lost truck for him, sippy cup of wine for me.)  Mommy's arms fit perfectly around him, and her face nestles exactly in that little crook between his head and shoulder.  Or maybe it's the other way around.  Either way, there's nothing like it.

When I was in first grade, I was a Brownie.  I lasted about a year, maybe two, partly because my mom hated being the Troop's Cookie Chairman, but also because I hated camp outs and sleep-aways.  I was always homesick, even when my mom was a chaperone.  With my Brownie days behind me, I thought homesickness was behind me, too.  But tonight it's becoming clear that I haven't REALLY felt homesick yet.  I have a hunch that this week is going to be really, really hard.

At least for me.

My son will be eating ice cream for breakfast.  And if that distracts him from being sad, that's fine by me.

In fact, bring me a pint of Cherry Garcia.

Maybe I'll be fine, too.