They're not kidding when they say kids get growth spurts near their birthday. The poor dear. Our little Cohen has been extremely cranky, and I happily attributed it to my being sick, and he was just so distraught that mommy wasn't feeling well. My four walls of conceit fell down after last nights prayer.
Cohen: Please bless me good dreams and sleep well.
Please bless me grow big.
Please me, my legs won't hurt anymore.
Darn it! I've been in serious Freudian denial these past few weeks. I failed to notice my sprouting son. His legs, I suddenly noticed, are SO MUCH longer already. His little jammies were floods on him. This, of course, made me burst into a frenzied fit of denial. I've entered the four steps of motherhood. My little baby, my little 6 lb 14 oz 19 in wailing baby, is a little boy. This is harder than I had anticipated. My little assumption that I was the center of his world also doesn't help. But, you know what they say when you assume. If you don't, email me, and I'll tell you. This is a family site, after all.
I'm slowly moving into the second step, obsessive planning over his future/further denial. Suddenly I'm overly concerned with what elementary he'll be attending, and whether or not I want him to attend Harvard or Yale. I guess I'll let him pick...between those two. I'm pretty sure they still admit little red-headed, freckle faced curmudgeons. I've also begun interviews for his future wife. Please contact me via e-mail to set up an appointment.
The worst part of the whole thing was the sudden realization that it doesn't end with Cohen. Nor, I'm sure, will it end with Kembry. I will have to go through these stages at least two more times, probably more; and I don't expect it gets any easier with the subsequent punks.
But I won't worry about that now. I'll worry about that tommara.