Years ago, when we welcomed Van into our world, I wrote this post about how loving a second was a different experience than loving a first. When I gave birth to Hooper, the love was instant and felt limitless. In true ignorance-is-bliss fashion, I had no idea just how much more my heart would grow, my love evolve. And so, when Van was born I was anxious for him to grow, too… Knowing what I knew after giving birth and raising Hooper, that whatever love I felt on day one would piddle in comparison to the love I’d feel on day 500, I had more of a hurry-up-and-grow-up-and-become-more-fun mentality.
Loving a third, it seems, lends itself to completing the full circle. Hooper and Van are all kinds of wild and have fully outgrown toddlerhood; they have minds of their own and actions, too… actions that land themselves in corners and send fumes bursting out of every orifice Willy and I have. They talk back. Just this morning Van spit at me because I told him he couldn’t have his damn vitamin (which the jury is still out on in terms of it not being just a gummy bear because, puh-lease, even I find it hard not to eat more than two) until after breakfast. Point being, they have every capability of being dick wods.
Then there’s Sonny… sweet Sonny. The only thing coming out of his mouth is the occasional milk he lets spill out as he falls asleep at the bar. No spit. Rarely even any spit up. And talking back? Nope, none of that either; only the accidental coo that slips out unintentionally. So innocent.
And so, loving him has been a natural transition; a change from hurry-up-and-grow to take-all-the-time-you-need. Because I know now what’s around the corner.
Soon enough, he’ll be spitting at me too.
Dear Sonny, take your time. And be kind.