I Can Wait

"Mama, I want to sit in fire truck and get hair cut," my two-year-old says to me on a typical Wednesday afternoon.  I am surprised, because the first time we went to get a "real" haircut (as in not cut by me), he cried the entire time, fire truck or no.  That was months ago and we haven't been back; this request is out of the clear blue sky.  Before he can change his mind, we jump in the car and go to the kids' salon.

I explain to him on the way how a haircut works, in case he has forgotten.  We have been cutting his hair on the back porch and even then he resists my efforts... I am no good at this and have done the best I can, and I realize when we arrive at the salon that it is a disheveled mop.  I have Mom Vision, and of course, he is still beautiful in my eyes; I have never noticed anything amiss.

I tell my son that if he sits bravely through his haircut without any tears, I will give him a sticker from his trucks book - the one we use for potty training rewards.  He lights up and nods his head.

Sitting in the fire-truck-shaped chair, he refuses the cape agitatedly.  Here we go, I think.  I shrug and tell Hilda, our new friend, to cut away without the cape... we'll brush the hair off as we go.  He puts on a serious face and sucks on his lollipop with a stoic set to his jaw, eyes on the Cars 2 movie in front of him.  It is only near the end, when Hilda uses the clippers to do the back, that I see a small tear rolling down his face; we have practiced with scissors but not with the clippers at home.  We finish with his arms around me and his head buried in my shirt, but he is trying not to cry.  I praise him and tell him that he has been so brave and he has earned a sticker and a new lollipop, and he recovers quickly, proud of himself.

He is growing up so fast.

And yet, in the last two weeks he awakens around midnight every night, crying miserably.  I wish I knew what was keeping him awake or scaring him, so that I could protect him from them.  And when I carry him to bed with me and he snuggles his warm body close by my side and falls asleep, he looks so small.

He is still my baby.

I envelop him in my arms while he is sleeping and inhale the sweet scent of him.  I watch him sleep and kiss his head and stay as close to him as I can.

Because he will still let me.

Now, when he is awake, he sometimes pushes me away with his tiny hand.  He pretends he doesn't want to give his father a hug at bedtime and then jumps into his arms, constricting my heart.  He puts his shoes on by himself.  He talks to his stuffed puppy and they share jokes only the two of them understand; he laughs to himself before he falls asleep.  He calls my bluff when I walk away at the park, pretending I'm leaving without him.  "Bye, Mom," he says, waiting; knowing.

I don't want him to grow up any faster.  There are no milestones I'm in a hurry to reach.

I can wait.

I can wait for him to stop saying "lellow" for yellow, "cimmon woll" instead of cinnamon roll, "yuv you" for love you, and "banilla" instead of vanilla.  It is music to my ears.

I can wait for him to be potty trained, because the sight of him in those tiny diapers is still so cute.  And besides, I'll miss the swish-swish sound of diapers when he's grown out of them.

I can wait to put him in proper preschool until next year; he is so happy where he is now.

I can wait for him to stop wanting to sleep in my arms when he awakens too soon from his nap, and we snuggle on the recliner snoozing together.  As we did today.

I can wait for him to switch from sipping his colorful straw cups to regular drinking cups.

I can wait for the revelation that mama can't fix some hurts with a kiss.

I can wait for him to stop wanting to sit in my lap to watch Doc McStuffins in the morning when we wake up.

I can wait for him to not ask me to play trucks with him.

I can wait for the day he longer asks to hold my hand.


There is no hurry.

Find me at Things I Can't Say today...