Four Good Fridays ago, Jeremy and I carefully slid newborn Sam out of his hospital gown and into his first real baby clothes and his impossibly small snugly snowsuit, and then we tucked him into his car seat for the trip home from the Civic Hospital. Already deeply in love with this bundle of bunny, we took the greatest care with the straps and buckles and tried to cluck and soothe away his puzzled frown and disapproving squawks. Having spent three nights under the efficient care of the nursing staff, we were nervous about heading home alone with our boy, the awesome weight of that responsibility rendered nearly ironic by the bag-of-groceries feel of the baby carrier in our hands.
Still, we were moved by the incredible "here-ness" of Sam's long-awaited presence and foolishly proud of his wee scrunched up face, his banshee-wailing, and his 57 cms of length (the tape measure evidence already hanging from the Jetta's rearview mirror). Within the hour, we welcomed most of the Arnold family for a full Easter weekend of sharing our sweet son and marvelling at how his furrowed brow and intent eyes made him appear to be actually concentrating on his surroundings. Even the nurses had remarked that he seemed unusually absorbed by the goings on around him. Later, we'd come to wonder if that expression wasn't a harbinger of the colicky days to come. While he kept us on our exhausted toes in the early weeks with implacable fussing and crying jags, he also delighted us with the most beguiling of baby smiles complete with wide shining eyes, a crinkled nose and giggle-speak. It was all we could do not to smother him endlessly in kisses.
Fast forward four years (and it was fast), and the impulse to hug and kiss and cuddle our boy-o hasn't abated, really. We're ever more conscious that those days are numbered and that the time will come when he's simply too big a boy to be carried in sound asleep from the car, to be scooped up for a soothing hug when he's hurt or sad, to be kissed on the nose for saying the cutest things. But we've got that still, and I want to record it all: that he throws himself into my arms when I pick him up from pre-school, no self-consciousness in his celebratory shout of "Mummy!"; that he needs an extra tuck-in hug when he's scared of the dark; that he watches hockey sitting on his Daddy's lap; that he's wrapped around me right now, having approached me at the computer to ask quietly, "Can I spend a few minutes with you?". Though I can't imagine forgetting any of this, I have to admit that so many of his 48 months have faded in our memories into a fuzzy amalgamation of dim recollections, so many milestones are only vaguely recalled.
This isn't simply to be a record for the sake of posterity, however. As much as we might regret the passing of all the little bits and pieces of Sam's baby- and toddlerhood, we're also amazed by the little boy our son is growing up to be. I want to celebrate that, too. And I know that the pleasant task of describing Sam's "baby steps" towards becoming his own person will make me enjoy the process all the more. He's next to me now, demonstrating his ability to do jumping jacks (his EX-er-cises), a gentle reminder that I promised he could do my cardio DVD alongside me this morning. Back to it. But see? There. I started it. Here begins the journal of daily life with Sam and the repository of recollections of days past. One phrase from the memory bank gave this blog its title: "I have a word for you" is Sam's solemn way of announcing that he has something important to say. I have a word for you too, Sam. Lots of them....
Still, we were moved by the incredible "here-ness" of Sam's long-awaited presence and foolishly proud of his wee scrunched up face, his banshee-wailing, and his 57 cms of length (the tape measure evidence already hanging from the Jetta's rearview mirror). Within the hour, we welcomed most of the Arnold family for a full Easter weekend of sharing our sweet son and marvelling at how his furrowed brow and intent eyes made him appear to be actually concentrating on his surroundings. Even the nurses had remarked that he seemed unusually absorbed by the goings on around him. Later, we'd come to wonder if that expression wasn't a harbinger of the colicky days to come. While he kept us on our exhausted toes in the early weeks with implacable fussing and crying jags, he also delighted us with the most beguiling of baby smiles complete with wide shining eyes, a crinkled nose and giggle-speak. It was all we could do not to smother him endlessly in kisses.
Fast forward four years (and it was fast), and the impulse to hug and kiss and cuddle our boy-o hasn't abated, really. We're ever more conscious that those days are numbered and that the time will come when he's simply too big a boy to be carried in sound asleep from the car, to be scooped up for a soothing hug when he's hurt or sad, to be kissed on the nose for saying the cutest things. But we've got that still, and I want to record it all: that he throws himself into my arms when I pick him up from pre-school, no self-consciousness in his celebratory shout of "Mummy!"; that he needs an extra tuck-in hug when he's scared of the dark; that he watches hockey sitting on his Daddy's lap; that he's wrapped around me right now, having approached me at the computer to ask quietly, "Can I spend a few minutes with you?". Though I can't imagine forgetting any of this, I have to admit that so many of his 48 months have faded in our memories into a fuzzy amalgamation of dim recollections, so many milestones are only vaguely recalled.
This isn't simply to be a record for the sake of posterity, however. As much as we might regret the passing of all the little bits and pieces of Sam's baby- and toddlerhood, we're also amazed by the little boy our son is growing up to be. I want to celebrate that, too. And I know that the pleasant task of describing Sam's "baby steps" towards becoming his own person will make me enjoy the process all the more. He's next to me now, demonstrating his ability to do jumping jacks (his EX-er-cises), a gentle reminder that I promised he could do my cardio DVD alongside me this morning. Back to it. But see? There. I started it. Here begins the journal of daily life with Sam and the repository of recollections of days past. One phrase from the memory bank gave this blog its title: "I have a word for you" is Sam's solemn way of announcing that he has something important to say. I have a word for you too, Sam. Lots of them....
1 comment:
This is a beautiful start to your blog. May it bring you, Jeremy and Sam many years of enjoyment, and may it keep the treasures that are your memories safe from the pirate that is time.
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