the end of something special

Thanks everyone for all your comments (and offers to babysit!) on my last post...always nice to know I'm not the only one yearning for a little rest from motherhood.  Just like the rollercoaster of parenthood, in this post the pendulum swings the other way. 

:: :: 

Tonight, just before Hazel fell asleep, she nuzzled my neck and said, "Eye-yove-you."  This kid.  Her little personality.  Lately, she makes me all gooey-sappy, waxing nostalgic.  I know we are just at the end of something special.  Just as I lamented the end of the newborn stage, and then the adorable sitting-but-not-yet-crawling stage, I find myself wanting to soak up every second of RIGHT NOW.  This stage before a toddler-baby becomes a kid.  

When new phrases and sentences and words are still largely clothes she's trying on for the very first time.  Like the first time she tasted watermelon, I wonder what synapses are firing in her brain when the word flashlight exits her mouth: Did it come out the way she was expecting?  Did it surprise her?  Did it taste funny?  Was it good?  

I am trying to pay attention.  I am trying to remember.  I melt over her voice, the way it's still all throaty--like a spike elk or a jake turkey learning to bugle or gobble for the very first time.  

Her language floors me everyday.  Her clarity, her motivation, her intention.  Lately, if I'm reading or talking--especially to Juniper--and Hazel's trying to tell us something, she gets in my face, puts a finger to her lips and says, Shhh.  Shhhh.  Shhhh.  And when we finally shush, she points to the thing she wants to discuss, names it, perhaps assigns an owner or an adjective, and looks to me for confirmation.  And when I say, Yes, that's a _____, she smiles, swings her shoulders like, I thought so, and returns to the task at hand.  

When we lie in bed together, after I've told her, No more nursing; we already nursed, she requests, Hush Little Baby.  Just like this: Ush lil bebee.  Tonight as we were preparing for bed, she sang to me, rocking her head and grinning bashfully, Ush lil bebee, doe saya wor.  (I sing her the hippie version every night, complete with banjos and lightening bugs and the harvest moon.)  Between my exhaustion and this, you'll have to scoop my melted body off the floor with a spatula.  

I can now ask Hazel to get Juniper for breakfast and from the other room I hear:

Ju-bud.  Beh-fass.  And, oh, I'm telling you, I'm dissolving over here.  There will be nothing left of me but a giant, swollen, beating heart.

:: I snatched this little photo essay last month when my mom was here and we were making breakfast or something, then looked up to see Hazel building skyscrapers.  She was so dang proud of herself when she saw we were noticing.  She held her ground.

'Night.