on firstborns, part 1

One day last week, while we were playing in the backyard, I was really struck by how grown up Henry is becoming. One minute, I was just watching him play pirate ship on the swingset while helping James remember to not eat sand, and the very next, I looked up and was taken aback by everything about my firstborn.

It's strange, this thing about firstborns that I am discovering. I'm sure it holds true for secondborns (and thirds and so on), but it is the first time that provides the discovery...therefore, the first time that is getting written about here. After they turn two(ish), the changes in their appearance and their developmental milestones come on so much more gradually. Day to day, they do not seem to change very much at all, in fact. But, if you take a look and then look back a few months or a year, the transformation suddenly becomes breathtaking.

Here he is last week coming down off of the skiff...

And here he is about one year ago having the time of his life with his daddy at the school park.

He was new at being a big brother and just a few months shy of two years old on this day. I remember us taking him to the park in hopes that a little quality family time focused mostly on him would help him to know that he was still our special boy (we were in the throes of new baby adjustment). Sidenote: this evening at the park was crucial in solidifying Jared as his best friend and Jedi Master, I'm sure of it. We took so many pictures as the shadows grew long, and they are all precious...so symbolic of what our family was going through and capturing beautifully the beginning of the end of Henry's 'baby/toddler' days.

    

Over the past year, we've watched our firstborn's baby/toddler-ness completely disappear. It didn't happen overnight. It didn't happen in measurable increments. It just sort of happened while we were blinking our eyes.

Today, he is a seasoned pro at being a big bother. He is six inches taller. He tells elaborate stories. He doesn't need reminding that he's our special boy...he'll tell you straight up that he is. He weighs 42 pounds. He sells his brother his bottle back after he steals it out of his hands. He imagines. He can spell his name. He knows his address. He knows everyone's first name and their 'other' name - I am Mommy, but I'm also Lizzie; my dad is Paw Paw, but he's also Lande. You get called your 'other' name when it's important. He likes sweet tea, and he loves it if you freeze it into a sweet tea popcicle. He shows compassion for his friends and family who are sick or sad by offering hugs and pats...and he always adds, "it's okay...there, do you feel better now?"

His hair is coarser...still little-kid soft but nothing like it was last summer. He has a few (read: like 400) new scratches and scars to show for another year of being all boy. His fingernails have dirt under them every single day, and we have failed at life if we haven't built a tower and a dragon out of our jumbo blocks by 10 a.m.

My firstborn was born with a red birthmark on his side. It's called a hemangioma, for those who like to google. We didn't mind it at all, but as new and doting parents, we were somewhat worried it would grow and he'd be embarrassed about it at the pool when he was older. The pediatrician told us not to worry...these types of birthmarks usually disappear by age 6. And guess what. Sometime since last summer, the disappearing process began, and now, his "checkmark," as he calls it, is just a faded shade of pink...and looking to be completely gone before another year passes.

Sometimes over these past 12 months, I have found myself feeling guilty that the H-man gets such a bad rap on the blog - that I'm always telling the stinky stories on him. I find myself wanting so badly to blow a bunch of sunshine about how perfect and easy and well-behaved he is and how blessed and relaxed and unfazed by discipline I am. What can I say, though? It's a hard freaking year, the one between 2 and 3. It's hard on everybody when there isn't anything else going on...and we had a lot (understatement) else going on. So, one day, when he's reading back over the blog book that I'm having made out of all of these ramblings, I want him to know that. The days are long when you're the mom of a 24-36 month old...but the year is short, to be sure. And no matter how much under-the-bus-throwing he got here, he's perfect just how he is.

Since we're talking about what I want him to know, I also want him to know that there has never been a year in my life that I learned or loved more. I hear words coming out of my mouth on a daily basis that I never thought I'd hear myself say. Some are words of correction...others are words of grace. Correction is hard for me. Grace comes more easily. I thank my firstborn for teaching me how to communicate both.

My eyes look more tired than other women my age. My wardrobe is almost always colored with evidence of crumb-filled mouths and sticky fingers. My bathroom walls and floors often show evidence of potty-training. We eat a lot of hot dogs for dinner. Jared and I buy things with red packaging just because it's a certain someone's favorite color (do you know that there is a brand of orange juice that comes in a red container?!?! we do!). Thomas the Train blares loudly from my car speakers, and there is rarely a time our TV is on when Mickey Mouse Clubhouse isn't filling our living room.

I love it that we've completely sold out for a 2-year old. I love it that we're unrecognizeable to our former selves...you know, the really hip, young, jetsetting, selfish people that met 5 years ago next week?  

 

That's the funny thing about firstborns, though, right? The changes in them - and in us because of them - aren't so obvious day-to-day...but if you look a few months or even years back, the transformation is simply breathtaking.

Thank you, my sweet firstborn son, for taking my breath away.