Sometimes when I’m walking alone, I’ll repeat some of the nonsensical bits I say to Nathan, particularly this line: “I like to bite the feety-feet.”
I know the babystink that lingers in his toes is fleeting and will soon be replaced by repulsive boystink and mutant teenstink. While we were visiting my in-laws in St. Louis, my 13-year-old nephew took his shoes off and the toxic fumes were so foul, it sank into the carpet fibers and the smell stayed even after he left. So I’m trying to get in all the babystink before his toes morph into something ugly.
I don’t know what it is about having a baby that makes me pervert the English language. Ever since Nathan arrived, I’ve had to say things like feety-feet, call my son a “bunny,” and worse, make a scene over the butty-butt. I love the butty-butt and its two handfuls of globular fat that force me to grab and squeeze and repeat, “I love to bite the butty-butt.”
And sometimes Mike and I will talk to each other the way we talk to Nathan. We have this bit where Mike and I will frown at Nathan and pretend to be angry with him and we’ll demand information by saying, “Nathan, your mother and I are very upset with you because you haven’t answered our question: How big is Nathan?” Then we’ll grab his hands and go through the varying, “Is he this big? No! Is he this big? No,” until we reach the grand finale when we’ll wave his arms at his side and squeal, “He’s thiiis big!”
This is probably what people did before they had television.
Next month is Nathan’s 1st birthday, when he’ll officially no longer be a baby. But ever since he started fitting into 18-24 month pants, I’ve been losing the baby in him. Even this picture looks like I’ve taken a two-year-old and diapered him in a frenzied attempt to turn him back into an infant.
But until I stop playing the “What is that you’re eating?!?” or requesting that Nathan stop crying so I can hear what Kendra’s saying on Girls Next Door, he’ll still be a baby, feety-feet and all.