Not the Baby
July 12, 2012
I posted a (filtered-up-to-hell) version of this picture on Instagram a couple days ago, and the response was almost unanimous: When did that three year old eat your baby, Amy?
I wish I could tell you it was a fluke-y trick of the light or angle, but no. Baby Ike is not really looking super babyish these days. He's a tall, solid, smirky little thing who looks like I put two parts Noah and one part Ezra in a cocktail shaker and bam: straight-up toddler.
Well, pre-toddler, technically, since he's only taken a small handful of tentative half-steps so far. He's very good at standing unassisted and clapping for himself, but for actual forward propulsion he still prefers dropping back to his knees and speed-crawling all over the place.
I kind of don't blame him. He's crazy fast that way, plus there's less of a chance of falling and getting his teeth lodged in the outside part of his face.
The mouthful of teeth aren't helping in the 13-months-going-on-36 looks department either. His canines cut through last weekend — all four of them, bringing his total tooth-count up to 16. SIXTEEN TEETH. At this rate his "two-year molars" will show up in September, and we should plan on getting his wisdom teeth pulled by kindergarten.
He enjoys watermelon, strawberries, pasta, cheese, chicken, grilled summer vegetables and steak. Not a big sweets fan, other than fruit, but he'll gamely give anything you're eating a try, by which I mean he'll get a crazy look in his eyes and wave his arms around while shrieking EAT? EAT? EAT! until you share.
His big brothers adore him, and show a lot more patience with him than they do for each other, even as Ike gets bigger, taller and Lego-grabbier.
I look at him now and the reality of THREE BOYS is hitting me more and more (and harder and harder) each day — it's not one boy, one toddler and one little baby. It's three children, all hurtling forward towards full-on boyhood at lightning speed. Wrestling, wrastling, shrieking, fighting, destroying, laughing. All the time. Constantly. And then some more.
That's not a bad thing — in many ways I'm a little relieved to see the end of the baby days in sight, and plan to enjoy the hell out of the next stage before we hit (oh God) teenagerhood — but oh, Baby Ike. I'll miss you most of all.