I take loving my son to a whole new level, which my husband likes to refer to as being “a pushover.” Though “pushover” isn’t a word I would use to describe myself, when it comes to Dylan, sometimes…it happens.
What can I say? He’s my firstborn, the son I dreamt of, he’s my little baby everything, and he won’t stop growing. He’s thriving through the thick of toddlerhood; tantrums, independence, wonderment and all. He’s ready to explore, discover, and marvel at this big ol’ world and I’m sitting here like, “Do you wanna baba little baby?” My point is, I’m not a “pushover,” I’m Tinkerbell. I just want to hang out with a young Peter forever! But dang, this fairy dust business is breaking a girl’s back.
You see, I still consider Dylan a wittle baybee- all 28lbs of him. So naturally, I disregard his ability to walk and instead, opt to wear him like a vital accessory. And up until my arms go numb and my sides ache, I LOVE carrying him. I didn’t expect babyhood to whiz by as quickly as it has and lugging the kid around on my hip is the ultimate metaphor for how I’m feeling about his maturation: I’m holding on as long as I can.
Yet the days of accessorizing with Dylan are quickly dwindling into a thing of the past because I’m no longer hauling a baby, I’m towing a freaking child who is constantly requesting to walk, to go down, and to do his damn thang. And though it is my responsibility to let him grow-up (within reason), I continue to “shh” Dylan’s requests because Tinkerbell’s back ain’t broken yet. And until I literally am pushed over, I’m holding onto Peter Dylan as long as I can.
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