Timothy is eight months.
I was sitting on the floor, ready to catch him if he loses his balance standing at a music table with various buttons and dials, when a photo from my screen saver caught my eye: a one-day old Timothy and I in the hospital.
Was it really only 8 months ago?
The first weeks and months were long. The days were long chains of short naps and short playtimes. Long 45 minute nursing sessions, during which I used to read books; many, many naps, which translated into even more reading time; playtime that amounted to me singing to him and then stepping aside and letting him observe the room as he used to get tired of interaction very quickly.
And then he started getting more active. Nursing sessions got shorter – and more interactive, no more reading for me. He now rarely gets tired of interaction – and even when he plays on his own on the floor, he wants me sitting next to him most of the time, or else he gets upset. I have a long repertoire of games and activities – and still sometimes I run out of ideas and energy towards the end of the day.
Days are flying by now.
I do remember him turning one month, three months, five months old. But the last couple of months feel like a blur. He literally JUST turned six months – how could he possibly already be eight? Does he really not need to nurse for 20 minutes every 3 hours? He already can eat meat and fish? How come in less than four months he is starting daycare?
I grabbed Timothy and gave him a hug.
You know, before he grows too old to be hugged at my will – or decides he doesn’t need hugs.
He looked at me distractedly and returned to his buttons and dials.
I love you Timothy. You will be my baby boy forever – even when you will be a grown-up man…