When I first became step-parent to the big kids, I remember being amazed at how much the little things matter. A little fresh air and some time on the swings could turn around a cranky Sunday afternoon. Learning that the buzzing sound overhead was an airplane. That sadly, we would not likely see Spiderman if we spent the afternoon in New York City.
That, times a million, with a baby. This morning, Bumby was so very, very cranky. He’s got a cold, and his reflux is acting up, so he’s so tired, and wanted to nurse so badly, but he had to wait 30 minutes after taking his Prevacid. He grabbed onto my legs and looked up with his weepy eyes and crusty nose. “Up, up!” I picked him up. A minute later, I set him back down so I could put on my stockings. He writhed around on the floor a little to demonstrate that this was so completely not okay with him. When I stood up, he grabbed my legs again, about to request his pick up. I watched the wonder dawn on his face as he grabbed ahold of my stockinged legs. They looked the same, but they WEREN’T. Why do Mama’s legs feel like this? What is this stuff? He laughed. He pulled at it. He rubbed his hand up and down, over my kneecap, again and again. Finally, satisfied, he looked up at me, all weepy eyes and crusty nose, but this time with a smile. “Up, up!” I picked him up again, with a little lift in his mood from the miracle that is stockings.