"Mommy, go."

It finally happened last night.

I was putting Caedmon to bed, which, though I’m exhausted and am looking forward to my imminent freedom, is one of my favorite moments of our daily routine. We talk about his day, we sing “Wheels on the Bus” and “Happy Birthday” to all his friends, we take turns blowing raspberries on each other’s tummies. It is our special time, just him and me.

I prolonged my goodbye, as I often do. I snuggled in for an extra kiss, an extra tickle, an extra whiff of Johnson & Johnson plus little boy. And I don’t know if he was just tired, or if he was simply holding me to the “goodnight” that I kept saying, but he looked at me, and with no ill-contempt, said, “Mommy, go. Can you go?”

My heart just about stopped.

Mommy, can you go? When has my boy ever wanted me to go? I mean, yes, there was a period when he needed his privacy as he did his business in his diaper, or when he would tell me to go, because he didn’t want to stop whatever he was doing for me to change him. And then, sometimes he will urge me to leave when he is playing heartily with his Uncle Ed (his favorite person in the world besides Thomas the Tank Engine) when he senses an impending termination of his fun by my looming presence. ("Caedmon, it's time for lunch/go inside/go to bed."... Moms can be no fun sometimes.) So okay, fine, Caedmon has asked me to go many times, but never like this! Never with such cool insistence and an actual desire to be apart from me simply because he was tired of my presence. And never has it been during our goodnight time! At that moment, my memories flipped like a speed rolodex to all the instances I couldn’t pry him away, when he cried because I had left the room, when he would reach his arms out through the crib slats as I said “goodnight”… But yesterday, it was “Mommy, go.” And so it has begun.

I played it cool, as I didn’t want to make it a big deal, but once downstairs, I had a good cry on Wayne’s shoulder. “I miss him,” I sniffled. “I really, really miss him.”

The truth is, I’ve noticed a marked difference in my boy over these last few months; he seems infinitely older and profoundly altered from Toddler Caedmon. For the most part, it’s been fun, though bittersweet, to watch this development. He helps me with simple chores, like feeding Lucy, and actually manages to keep most of the food in the bowl. He has a real sense of humor and tells “jokes” (his favorite: “Ding-dong!” “Sam-sui!”—his version of a knock-knock joke… though don’t ask me what that means). And when Maroon 5’s “Sugar” comes on the radio, he exclaims, “I wuf that song!” and proceeds to bop his head to the beat. Sometimes, though, he’s an outright menace—eating toilet paper or stepping on my gift wrap like they’re a pair of skis—and he’s taken to saying “hah?!” incessantly so that he sounds like a crotchety old lady. The worst is when he sticks his finger in his ear to fish out a juicy gob of earwax and then waves it in my face, and as I bat his gunky finger away, I warily acknowledge that I am, indeed, raising a boy. And that’s the thing; these antics are not of a baby, but of a boy. It seems as though Toddler Caedmon has turned into a kid right before my eyes.

Maybe it’s his sudden and swift acquiring of language or his recent promotion to Big Brother. Maybe it’s because we said “goodbye” to diapers this summer and that he started preschool for the first time earlier this fall, or perhaps he’s just developmentally on cue for three-and-a-half… It is probably all of the above, but that did nothing to assuage this mama’s bleeding heart, and I went to bed with a sigh and a sentimentality for what I can’t believe is already the past.

This morning, though, was a new day, and all was well again, especially because it was garbage day! At the first distant rumblings of the trucks, Caedmon still stretches out his arms in an excited panic, and though he weighs a fair amount more than a year ago, I heave him onto my hip, and we still rush out to catch the show each week. This morning, after a mad dash across the house, hurdling toys and moving boxes, we made it in the nick of time. And as we basked in the glory of these majestic giants, he was my little boy again, with his arms wrapped around my neck and a gleam in his eye only a three-year-old could have as he followed the blinking lights of the garbage truck disappearing around the corner.

And as I stood barefoot on the cool sidewalk, our hearts still thumping in our chests, I held him to me just a little bit tighter. Who knows how much longer we’ll rush to meet the garbage truck or that he’ll let me carry him at all. Until then, I will certainly savor the vestiges of his babyhood and do my best to nurture and foster my growing boy (all the while so thankful I get to do all this over again with my baby girl). Because more than ever, I feel just how fleeting and few these little years are. 

Caedmon recently found his old hat and stretched it over his head. See the difference between 8 months and 3-1/2!

I love this mixture of baby and boy: still donning his bib and drinking from his sippy cup but sitting at the table like a big boy and "reading" his construction "magazine" (a mailer updating the community on the local EchoWater project).

Our Family of 3.5

Back in early February, my dear friend Calvina took some photos of our little family of 3.5. At the time of the shoot, I was just starting my second trimester of pregnancy, so in other words, I was in that dreaded in-between stage in which I looked less pregnant and more like I had simply let myself go. But no matter; there is much a loose top will hide, I have since learned after giving birth to Caedmon, and so my vanity appeased, we set about a usual day while Calvina snapped away and so beautifully and artfully captured those moments that make these usual days so special.

Now, in this last week before my due date, there is definitely no hiding this burgeoning mass that is my abdomen. And with Baby's imminent arrival, I find myself frantically hoarding my time and energy in order to finish projects, read books, spend time with Wayne and Caedmon, see friends, cook and freeze meals, wash and organize Baby's things... I am a whirling dervish of productivity, because we all know that life is over when a newborn arrives! (At least for a period of time.) But tonight, I'm taking a (small) breather as I peruse and enjoy these photos of our family of three-not-quite-four... because it really has been a special and significant time. (And because our worlds are about to be rocked, never to be the same, whether we're ready or not!)

See our full gallery here.

Poop for Peyton

More poop, pease!

Caedmon turned three last month, and with the approach of this milestone, (finally) came the beginnings of his speech. 

While other little friends his age and younger were churning out words and then deftly stringing them into sentences, Caedmon was perfecting his grunts and whines and pointed gesticulations. It has been confirmed by his pediatrician that he, indeed, has a speech delay.

I was never concerned though; enough moms and dads have related stories of how their now garrulous Gabby or chatty Charlie didn't start speaking until the age of three. And Caedmon is proving to be another such case. 

Still, by the encouragement of our pediatrician, Caedmon has been working with a speech therapist since the beginning of this year--first through Alta Regional, a state-funded program, and now that he's three, through Elk Grove Unified. (Can I just say how impressed and thankful I am for the support our country and state provide to those with disabilities, slight as Caedmon's is.)

And though the speech therapist reports that he is able to produce all expected sounds for his age, he has a tendency to mix his sounds, so that the first sound in his word will match a latter sound, made in the same region of the mouth. For example, the b- and p- sounds are made in the same region, as are the g- and k- sounds. So Caedmon's "stop" becomes "bop", "Caedmon" is "Peyton", and "muffins" become "fuffins". But my favorite has to be how he pronounces the word "fruit"; often, after dinner, he holds his hand to his face, a vestige of his baby signs, and asks in all earnestness, "More poop, pease!"

How can I not love this stage?

Though Wayne and I have become experts at deciphering his garbled code, sometimes even we can't understand what he is saying, and poor Caedmon is left gesturing wildly, unwittingly repeating his same clumsy words over and over, louder and louder, like the stereotypical American in a foreign country. The more I guess wrongly (You want James? You want beans? You want brains?), the more frustrated he becomes, until on more than one occasion, he has burst into pitiful, defeated tears. 

But he is developing and learning fast, and so thankfully, these episodes are becoming fewer and farther between. (Or I've just learned to stop after a few wrong guesses and then proceed to nod and feign comprehension, "Mm-hmm! Yeah! That's right!" It's been working pretty well for me.)

He is now saying "water" instead of "wa-wa". His "Popmas-Fens" is starting to sound like "Thomas and Friends".  He is replacing his favorite filler "a-jugga" with actual words. And each time, I praise his efforts, but I must admit that internally, I lament his maturing baby speak. Though I don't want Caedmon to talk like a neanderthal forever, a part of me is reluctant for my baby to grow up. I'm sure most moms can relate.

But of course I continue to cheer on my boy as he makes verbal leaps and bounds. And in the meantime, I will cherish this time of choppy, clumsy transition. We will continue our games of charades. We will greet the baghic guck each week as it picks up our trash. And I will keep doling out poop to my Peyton... because you know, it goes so well with peepeebutter and jelly.