The Baby

That’s generally what we say, shorthand for the Shorty. We refer to him without name almost in the third person. How’s the baby? meaning: Did you get sleep last night? What’s the baby doing? Or, what I’m really asking: Is he being cute or destructive?—his two main modes.

Yesterday the baby turned two.

Born the end of December, his birthday and Christmas will always compete for prestige, excitement, for gift haul. We want both to win.

Anyway, the baby got his first big-boy haircut and it immediately aged him, made him taller, made me reconsider the board book for maybe an iPhone. He looked like he needed a drink rather than a bottle, which is his secret vice. It didn’t help that he was wearing a Henley shirt and jeans like some MSU student down the street when I first saw him after the haircut.

I wanted him to stay a baby while also at the same time I wanted to sit down and have a conversation with him, find out what he’s been thinking about these past couple of years. I was torn between wanting to kiss his chubby little cheeks and realizing soon enough they'd be whiskery. I stooped down and kissed the top of his big-boy haircut head.

You’ll always be my baby.