Friday, September 24, 2010

Motion Blur


"Look, Mommy!"

By the time I look, he's off already. Running, bouncing, somersaulting. His shrieks are total elation.

I try to take snapshots - mental and digital - but he's too fast for me to get a good picture.

Every now and then, I manage to catch him as he zooms by. I throw my arm out and pull him in while he giggles and squirms. I try to memorize how it feels to hug him at this age.

But as soon as I think I've got it, and I'll never, never forget it - sturdy body that fits neatly against my torso, cornsilk hair smelling (inexplicably) of vanilla - he wriggles free and it's gone.

He thinks it's a huge joke, this scooting away from me at the speed of laughter. This non-stop, screwball turning into a "big kid," whatever that means.

He looks so mature to me now, even as he disappears down the hallway in a full toddler gallop (with food in his mouth, no less). He seems so "boyly." He says things like, "Okay, Mommy, here's the plan." When I suggest that he thank a store clerk for some stickers or a friendly compliment, he tells me, "No, I can only say 'thank you' to you and Daddy."

Of course, I know that a year from now I'll look back at pictures of him from today and say, "Oh, he was a baby!"

So I try to stay focused, because I know how quickly this will pass. Except that the present is a blur of motion. I run after him like crazy, but I'll never be able to catch up. I think he'll always be faster than I am.