Toddlers to Infants

Toddlerhood? I totally dig it. The silly, the screaming, the toddles, the tantrums, the cuddles and the crazies.

This morning, Harrison managed to simultaneously step on my kidneys and punch me in the left eye. It’s enough to make your brain hemorrhage and I was all, “THIS IS AWESOME.” It’s not for everyone, but for me? It’s my groove. (At this point, I would like to personally thank my older brothers for years of cage fighting training, without which I might never be prepared to be the mother of a boy toddler.)

I’m beginning to think that it all breaks down into two classes of people: those that like newborns, and those that like toddlers. Some people are newborn-phase lovers, and while I respect that, I certainly cannot get behind it. Yeah, the snuggles are sweet and when they’re sleeping all hot and bundled on your chest with little baby snuffles, it is magic. But they also lay there like a lump and puke on you, all ungrateful and stuff.

A few weeks ago, I met my friend Amy‘s new baby girl, Charlotte. Charlotte is gorgeous and yummy and smells beautiful and oh my heavens, is she the dream baby. Amy did good work with that one. I held her tiny 8 lbs. in my arms, marveled at the ruffles on her butt, and fell totally in love with that little girl…but felt no urge to return to that stage. I’m looked at Amy like, “She’s darling, but what does she do?!” I’m pretty sure this proves what a jerk I really am.

While I love to give my time and service and love, I like to get a little in return. Ali and I were talking about this over lunch the other day and she said that if she had my kind of experience with an inconsolable screaming newborn, she’d probably feel the same way. But really, I think I’m just shallow and selfish. Toddlers? You give them a kiss, and sure, there’s a 50% chance you’re going to get smacked in the face, but there’s also a 50% chance that he’ll lean in and slobber all over your cheek in blessed 15-month-old love.

Last night, I fixed Harrison some ravioli. Nate was out in the garage and Harry toddled over to the door, stuck his hand in the cat door and called, “Da? Da? Da??” and my heart exploded all over the raviolis until there was no need for sauce.

Or this morning, we sat on the floor and played with the old school Little People barn and I handed him the cow and he put the cow in the barn and shut the door. Because the cow belongs in the barn and I thought, “HOLY CRAP, you are the smartest kid alive!” Infants can’t do that stuff. All they do is drool.

Granted, being the mom of a toddler is aging me quickly. I’m pretty sure that my blood pressure has risen to a solid 140/90 (not really) and that my heart can only take a few more plunges off the couch before it finally says “Eff this noise, I’m outta here!” A trip to Target without a meltdown in the Gerber aisle is a victory that only the Spartans and other mothers may fully understand. Right now, Harrison is in this non-verbal stage of life where he knows what he wants but cannot communicate it well and that is frustrating for all of us, which leads to a little face sobbing up at me while I ask in exasperation, “WHAT DO YOU WANT?! Milk? Monkey? Outside?” and he just shakes his head “No no no.”

But still? I dig it. Look at us, lovingly looking on while the toddler contemplates the best way to climb the wall & give his parents a heart attack. oh, bliss!

I am a wife, mother, & connoisseur of breaded chicken. Celebrating the joy of my son while fighting the heartbreak of severe postpartum depression. Balancing family life with a career and the success of all three of us miraculously surviving each other. My blog is my story of life, hope, & change. Read more at The Heir to Blair.