Here-ya!

He talks now, non stop. Most of it is garbled baby nonsense, but slowly, we’re pulling words out that make sense. He mimics me and claps animatedly when we have a conversation.

Here-ya! he says delightedly as he shoves his hand down my throat, trying to feed me his biscuit. It’s soggy and a little mushed, but he is thrilled when I pretend to nibble it. Silly idea, as he promptly smears it all over my face.

Here-ya! Here-ya! A mashed together word, meaning ‘here you are’ or ‘here you go’. I try not to mash my words together too often, but hereyouare just happens, without breaks in the middle of it and he picks it up. Easy to say, easy to remember, he adds it to his list of words.

Not that I expect he has an actual list. He’s a baby and even the smartest baby is mostly daft.

A hole! Let’s put my finger in iiiiiit WAAAAIIIIIIIL.

Silly idea kid.

They never listen, babies.

***

He started as a ball of moulded flesh. Vaguely alien like, I birthed him and he was mine, ready to be shaped into whatever I wanted, so long as that shape was a little boy.

***

This morning as he screeched his displeasure at having his nappy changed and threw his breakfast across the floor because it wasn’t what he wanted, I was struck by a thought.

My baby. He’s turned into a toddler.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little sad.

He’s gone and grown up, with his own personality. He has wants and likes and they don’t always coincide with mine. For now, I am bigger and things like clothes and nappies are non-negotiable, but soon, my opinion isn’t going to be the one that matters.

***

He’s smart and he is clever. He can pull the wheels off toys and chew on them, he can climb to the top of the couch. He knows how to steal food from his sisters plate and he can almost get into my bra by himself. He talks and slowly his words take on meanings, rather than just baby babbling. He knows to crawl as fast as he can when the baby gate is open, to seek the freedom of the kitchen and then, outside.

But he still falls on his head occasionally when trying to climb down from the couch. He hasn’t learnt to fear heights and the falls accompanying them. He doesn’t remember that last time he played with the drawers, he slammed his fingers in them and this time, he’ll probably do the same thing.

That’s my job – the job of safe keeper. To prevent the falls, to watch him in the slippery bath tub when he stands up and claps, my breath baited and hands ready to catch him at a milliseconds notice. To leave pillows on the floor next to the couch for a safe landing and to either wedge the drawers open or shut, depending on their contents.

He’s bridging that gap between baby and toddler, faster than I’d like. He gets into mischief and laughs about it. He is my tiny little ball of energy, who follows his sister around like she is his God.

He is growing up.

For now though, he still needs my hands, ready to catch him.

Because at the end of the day, he’s still a baby and we’ve got a lot of learning left to do before he figures out what this world is all about.