As I was walking to my car after work today I found myself singing a little ditty that I made up for 'Rad using one of his many nicknames. And as I was singing this ditty I started getting all excited about picking him up from daycare, reaching almost a fever pitch when I sat in my car and could really geek out with the song and freak out about seeing my buddy. Seriously, if anyone had seen me cross the asphalt, smiling and singing and almost beginning to bounce as I neared my car, they probably would have thought I was completely unhinged.
Having a baby makes you sing, whether or not you're musical, and it makes you dance, too, whether or not you have rhythm. The have nots don't matter - it just seems like a universal, biological thing for babies to like being rocked and swayed and sung to. Wouldn't you? I find that it's not only calming for 'Rado (that's a new nickname. Just when you thought there couldn't possibly be any more), but it's just as calming for me. A co-worked noted that when you hold a baby it's like a reflex to start rocking them. That's true for me. It must be part of that maternal instinct that everyone talks about but that I have yet to tap into.
I made an appointment this afternoon, and when I mentioned "my son," those words kept echoing in my head after I hung up the phone. My son. Connor is my son. It sounds so different from saying "my baby" or calling him "kiddo." "My son" sounds so much more official. It's like when you get married and you say "my husband" or call yourself someone's wife for the first time. It's equally strange to thank someone for calling him cute. Sure, I had some hand in creating his beautimous little mug, but I didn't put him together like a Mr. Potato Head, hand-picking his features and assembling them just so. By saying "thank you," though, it's like I'm taking credit for our gene pool. It feels awkward, but thank you.
Sometimes I can't believe that 'Rad is my kid. Not only is the fact that he grew inside me and is now growing in the womb of the world amazing; I have a hard time believing that he's genetically mine because he's such a whitey. We like to make faces in the mirror and when I see us cheek-to-cheek there's a split second when I feel like I'm holding someone else's baby. But then he gives me that full-face smile and his eyes turn to little sideways crescent moons and I think of how proud my dad is that he has "Asian eyes," and I'm proud too.
On an edible note, we got stiffed by our neighborhood Girl Scout. I excitedly signed us up for three boxes of Samoas (my favorite, in case you're taking note *winkwink*) a few weeks ago (luckily, I didn't pay at that time). When I saw her delivering cookies to our neighbors I cleared a path to the front door, unlocked it, and waited patiently. I felt like Pavlov's dog, waiting for the doorbell to ring so I could get my treats. But it never happened. I looked out the window a few minutes later and she was gone! It's not that I need those cookies, but right now I want them. Damn you, sweet tooth! Time to raid the cupboards...
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