I've talked before about how I think, no I'm pretty sure, like there's a really good chance, that we're done having babies.
Having that feeling of semi-certainty (it's really more certain-feeling than I'm making it sound ... I'm just having a hard time with it today), makes days like yesterday even harder.
2 days before Dexter's 6 month birthday, he got up on his hands and knees for the first time. 2 days before his 7 month birthday, he figured it out and crawled. Really, really crawled. Officially crawled. One hand and knee together, then the other. And again, and again, and again. And there he was. Crawling.
In the moment, I cheered and yelled for R to grab the video camera. I'm not sure if we got any footage of him doing the real deal or not, but we at least filmed him on the day it happened. Then, something else happened. The stinker crawled right over to me, where I was sitting on the couch, and grabbed my pajama pant leg and began pulling himself up. I yelled for R again, "he's gonna do it! Come here!" And there he was. Standing.
He did that twice and did the real crawls maybe 5 or 6 times.
Theo was 9 months old before he crawled and about 9 months and 2 days old before he pulled up. Obviously, I knew it wouldn't be long til Dex started doing that once he really started crawling. I just didn't expect it to be minutes. With Theo, I had a nervous breakdown when he didn't meet every milestone right on time with boatloads of enthusiasm. With Dexter, I'm begging him to slow down. He's my last baby (probably) and I want him to stay that way as long as possible.
Not gonna happen. I was fine with the crawling and pulling up, we all knew it was coming soon since he'd been practicing and perfecting his moves for the last month. I wasn't prepared for what happened next.
Dex barely napped all day. I guess he was too excited about his newfound independence because every time we put him down - swing, bed, in the carseat on the way to Target - he slept, but only for a few minutes. By 745, I knew he had to be exhausted. So I nursed him. I cuddled him on the couch. He was distracted by the tv, so I took him to his room and rocked him (or tried). We just put his Christmas tree up in his room and he was mesmerized by the lights (damn LEDs are so bright, aren't they?) I held him tight and rocked back and forth, back and forth. He stared at the lights and tried to wiggle free from my arms. I rocked harder and held him tighter to no avail. My head was pounding so after about 10 minutes I said to him, "Dexter, I give up. You're stronger than me tonight," and laid him in his bed. I patted him a couple of times and walked away, fully expecting him to start fussing. I turned his monitor on and waited for his cries, my signal to go back in and try again.
10 minutes later I poked my head in his door and squatted down to look between the slats in the crib. No movement. I crept in, closer and closer, until I could see his eyes. And there he was. Sleeping.
I went back out to the couch to report my findings and a wave of sadness swept over me. My baby didn't need me anymore. I told R that I remember feeling like I won the lottery the first time Theo went to sleep on his own without fussing. This time it felt more like someone stole the wind from my sails. I want my baby to stay a baby, but it ain't happening. Man. This whole babies-growing-up-real-fast thing blows.
feeling a little useless,