He is a year old, no longer a baby, and officially a toddler. But of course, he is still absolutely a baby. First of all, he does not toddle. He takes three or four steps and then gives up and crawls because it is faster and more efficient. He has no shame in crying for his bottle, standing, climbing my leg as I’m pouring it, as if I were making it for some other thirsty baby.
By the way, he/him/his, refers to Dylan now, automatically. I don’t even think about it. I just say “he” and people have to know I am talking about my child. But in actuality, they have no idea who I am talking about and just get confused, because I forget that the whole world doesn’t revolve around Dylan like I do.
I always mean to have something significant to say, but never do. And maybe that’s why I don’t write in this blog as much as I should. But I want to write and maybe that means I need to give myself the allowance to write insignificant things.
I have finally gotten around to finishing Anne Lamott’s Operating Instructions, which is a journal she kept during her son’s first year. (As I type this, Dylan is trying to weasel his way underneath my desk, through my ankles, to grab at my computer cords!) I cannot believe that she wrote those journals, as they are published, during that first year. Maybe she took notes, and then later refined them, make them more coherent, funnier, wiser. Because if those are words written by the mother of an actual infant, I am very jealous.
Notice that I am just ignoring the fact that I have not written in this blog since May. There are excuses, as there always are, but I can’t be bothered with them. Excuses drain my soul.
*This post was actually written on the 9th of July, and I’m only just now getting around to posting it. But I am the mother of a toddler, and I am allowed 🙂