He learned the word happy

My son learned the word “happy” today, and he says it when he feels it.

So do I.

What a beautiful day.

He brings me a little whirl of dried grass that looks like a bird’s nest, holds it through the bars of the gate of the schoolhouse yard. “Mama!” he says, showing me, his face so bright. Neither of us can stand it, we want to run to each other, I can’t get the gate open fast enough, showers of kisses.

“Will you hug me?” I ask at dinner. He hugs me. For so long. I see him smile before he dives in. He doesn’t want to stop. We keep hugging and hugging. “Happy,” he says.

“Byeee byee, caw-caw,” he says, waving to the birds and smiling at them, watching them fly away. On the street, in our back yard, out the car window.

Saying everything now. Repeating the last word of almost every sentence I say. And when I ask him to point to almost any object on a page, he can.

We sit on my bed, on the “sea of lo-lo,” and draw pictures in the sketchbook. Then we move our animal crackers across the drawing and have them drink from the lake we’ve drawn. “Mmm, ahhh,” we say for the giraffe and camel, their thirst quenched after their long journey along the crayon-red railroad tracks.

We egg-roll across the living room rug toward each other, screaming.

We run toward each other, then slowly walk backward away from each other until he falls down in hysterics. Over and over.

We turn on the music and dance until we can’t breathe. Arms up, out, down. Leg kicks. Shimmies. Clap your hands. Slap your behind. We spin out to the corners of the room, and then we trade corners, over and again, laughing.

We take a bubble bath, the only object of which is to create as many bubbles as possible. I put them on my cheeks and make beard, and he bursts into giggles. We give him a bubble beard, too. I lay back and sink down in the bubbles. He gets behind me and does the same, seeming to love how adult he feels, laughing at his pretend-relaxing, then trying to keep a straight face.

I tell him, “Please never grow tired of trying to make me laugh, or laughing at my jokes, that’s all I ask,” I say.

Our bellies hurt from so many giggles. I do this thing where I look at him slowly and seriously, and he knows that means I’m about to make a dorky face, or stick out my tongue, or tickle him, or do something with a stuffed animal, and the anticipation makes him crack up.

Naked baby after bubble bath, putting a ribbon around the toy airplane’s neck because the plane is “cold.” It’s the airplane’s scarf. And then I must make the airplane circle through the air and crash into S’s bare belly. Then the stuffed kitties become airplanes and do the same—one crashes into his belly, and the other into his back, simultaneously.

Before I make dinner, he says, “Terts!” and because I can’t say no, not tonight, we go, I take him in the red wagon, and we go. He is thrilled. It is drizzling. There is a plane in the sky then a helicopter. There is a semi-truck. There is a flock of geese noisily heading south. There are the bulldozers, excavators, frontloaders, and skidsteers—all of which he can recognize (and I can, too, now). There are bumpy bumps, hills, sweet soft rain in our faces.

At dinner, he doesn’t like what I’ve made, so I give him salami, and his eyes pop open with glee. We eat sweet yogurt for dessert and he makes me laugh so hard I pee myself a little. He is just putting that spoon in his mouth loaded with so much yogurt and keeping the spoon there, and then laughing in this guttural way. Then opening his mouth and wagging his yogurt-covered tongue at me. I “cheers” his spoon with my spoon, and we laugh some more. “Sweet Dreams” comes on the radio and I serenade him loudly, dancing around the table with my spoon as my microphone, and he jiggles his little legs.

Having him back is so wonderful. I don’t feel tired. I just want to be with him, soak him up.

He has changed. He is talking so much more. His belly is huge. We are communicating more and more. I am getting a little bit of a sense of what it’s going to be like to have conversations with him.

I am beginning to understand that the nature of our relationship is probably going to always be somewhat like this—this dynamic we have of just constantly goofing around. It reminds me so much of my grandma’s relationships with all of her grandchildren. It feels so much like that cherished relationship I had with her. I often feel like I am channeling my grandma, that I am her. Which of course I, in part, am. She’s one of my favorite people on earth so this is a very good thing. She is so beloved, especially by her grandchildren. I love that I feel her so much in my parenting and in my bond with S.

DH is home now (he has been at a long drawn-out doc appointment) so I’d better go now.

 

 

Advertisements
Next Post
Leave a comment

4 Comments

  1. Such of beautiful depiction of you and him. <3

    Reply
  2. What a beautiful series of moments in your life with S.

    Reply
  3. We have a great book about emotions called “In My Heart”. The girls want to read it a thousand times every night and are always talking about their feelings now. Think it helps them sort themselves out a bit. Fiona says “Mommy, the sass (sad) is gone. I happy again!”

    Reply

Leave a reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: