I Hen

As you know, we're gearing up for baby around here. All of us are in on it. Daddy Pants does the heavy lifting, product assembly, and keeps me laughing through the late-third-trimester hormone roller coaster. Henry 'practices' (a word he can say beautifully, by the way) pushing the new stroller, rocking and burping his baby doll, putting the baby doll 'nigh-night', giving her hugs and kisses, putting her in her carseat next to his in the car, and holding up the miniature clothes we've been washing and proclaiming 'hooow cuuuuute' they are (no idea where he learned those words!). I've been washing, organizing, and trying to sleep as much as I can. With a little less than a month to go, I think we're right about where we should be.

So, anyway, this morning, Henry and I are playing in his playhouse and having fun throwing trucks down the slide. All of the sudden, he spies the new stroller across the room. Instead of saying 'walk' or 'practice,' like usual, he comes over to me and sits in my lap. He makes my arm bend so he can lay his head on it. Then, he looks up at me from the crook of my arm and says, "Baby...rock." I hop to, playing my part as requested. I rock him and sing "Rockabye Baby." He likes it...pretends to go to sleep and start snoring in my arms....quietly says "baby...nigh night."

Then I asked him, "awww, are you mommy's baby?"

He matter-of-factly replies, "No."

Me: "Ohhh, well, are you mommy's big boy?"

Him: "Mmm, No."

Me: (running out of options) "Well, then who are you?"

Big smile, pointing at his tummy like 1-year olds do..."I Hen."

Yes you are, sweet one. Not quite a baby, not quite a big boy...but definitely a Hen. My Hen.