Funny how a year changes things. This time last year, I was rocking Robbie excessively, afraid to put him down in his crib. Because I knew that it was the last time I would hold him as a baby. I desperately wanted to stop time and cuddle my baby. Tonight? I just wanted him to go to bed.
By the time we got home tonight, it was nearly 8:00. There was still dinner to conjure (fortunately, Robbie was satisfied with cereal mixed in with yogurt) and bath time to survive. By the time Robbie threw a bucket of water onto the floor, I was ready to lose my mind. Fortunately, there was no real time for that because I was too busy trying to keep my balance amid flailing limbs on the slippery tile.
I’m going to admit it because, well, we’re all friends here. I dumped water over Robbie’s head, scrubbed him down, and dumped more water to rinse him. He was crying and I was trying not to. And then bath time was over, with my child wrapped up in a towel. Do you know what he had the nerve to do? He put his head on my shoulder, wrapped his arms around my neck, and told me he loved me. Which melted my heart, until I slipped and nearly broke my neck on some unseen water from the earlier incident.
I’m still not at all sure how I feel about having a two-year-old. After all, I’m not nearly old enough for that kind of responsibility. And I feel kind of terrible for not relishing the last hours of Robbie being one. Case in point? Robbie just woke up, and I sent Justin, who, mind you, worked all day and went to class all night, upstairs to deal with him. But I’ll sneak into his room in a few minutes and steal some hugs and kisses. After all, he’ll only be one for another two hours…