Missing you

May 18, 2010

You spend eight hours each weekday with your dad that I don’t see.

He takes you to playgroup, where you bounce balls and slide down slides and ride on toys.  I think.  I think that’s what you do there.  I think you sometimes walk up to other toddlers and take their balls but sometimes you might have two balls and hand (throw) one away. 

I know that he takes you grocery shopping and you love stores and when you were tiny you loved the lights and the colors — oh my god it must be psychadelic for a baby — and sometimes he would carry you and the groceries too and you would fall asleep in his arms in the store and someone else would bag the groceries.  Then when you were big enough to sit in the cart, oh what freedom for you!  And you’d point (I think) and make sounds and make smiles at strangers and when you started really eating food he would hand you snacks and you’d make a mess but you’d be content (I think).  I think that now, though, I think that you must be screeching for more independence, screeching to get out of the cart, get out of the arms, and off you’re running down the aisle, pulling things off the shelves. Maybe.  I can only imagine this you know.  But I bet you’re a handful in the stores.

Sometimes the two of you go to Target (there’s not a lot to do with a 1-year-old in this rainy country) and you love to play with the balls, but you want them all, right?  You want every single one to be within your grasp.  So maybe Target isn’t as fun as it used to be for the two of you, with you demanding that your dad take each ball off the rack for you to bounce down the aisle.  But I bet you’re happy there. 

But mostly you’re happy anywhere outside.  The rain doesn’t bother you much anyway.  You’d sit in a puddle and turn blue if it meant you could just toss gravel here and there with no limits.  When your dad took you to the river the other day (still too cold to swim and the river is too high to go near), I bet you were charging ahead anyway, so anxious to splash in that water.

You love to splash.

You and your dad go out every day.  If it’s not raining, you go for walks with the stroller all over town.  You come home sleeping sometimes.  (When I walk with you on the weekends, you rarely fall asleep — too exciting with your brothers around.)  In the afternoons you go on errands.  There’s always an errand to do, and if there isn’t, he makes one up.  I bet you love those adventures.

You two keep each other busy, in a quiet way though.  The hours must seem long some days, and other days fly by.  Come 5 p.m. the pendulum shifts, heavily, loudly, and then we’re all home, occupying the same square meter sometimes.  It can be chaotic — the five of us in a room… Ahh, I can’t wait for summer, so we can just be outside all the time. 

Except for me. I’ll still be inside. Eight hours per day.

I wish I could be there with you.  I miss you so much that I’ll often take you with me when I have to take the other two boys somewhere.  I’ll just grab you and go, and then I realize that I’m exhausted and maybe three kids at dinner time out-and-about is a bit too much for me to handle, but sometimes missing you is a bit too heartbreaking.


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