With Child and I

I sold the little red car. To your grandfather. But still, I sold it. That little red car represents a lot about the last six years of my life. It didn’t have much over 30 000 kms on it. Because it wasn’t a travelling car. It was a mountain hiking, coffee shopping, beach galavanting, forest dawdling, dog carrying, cat transferring, hotel escorting, everything kind of car. It didn’t travel far but it was up for any mini adventure. Because we live in Cape Town, adventures are always fairly close to home. It drove Bailey and Bones with me to Silvermine to run in the hills and swim in the dam, before Bones got too old and couldn’t walk anymore. It took me to all of your appointments, from the very first visit with Dr Tam Tam at the fertility clinic to your birth day at the hospital. It accompanied us on the saddest day of our lives when Mowgli’s heart stopped and the vet let us cry over his little black and white body until we were able to go back out into the world. It let me do some stupid things too, and didn’t judge or tattletale. It sat out the many airport visits, and gave Dad’s car a turn, the Big Melon. Always the bridesmaid and never the bride, Dad called himself, as I left on another trip and he stayed behind.

Once you arrived, I knew I needed a new car, one to protect you and our journey. Little Red was all the years that led me to you. Big Blue will be all the mini adventures we make together.

In other news, you have teeth! I was so excited to find those two perfect teeth erupted in the middle of the bottom gum. On the cusp of six months, going on seven. It felt like the day the sonographer told us you were a boy all over again. It wasn’t so much your gender that excited me, as much as just knowing you were real. You got your pancakes, as tradition calls for. And your list of foods eaten (devoured with impatient zest) has grown: sardines, cheddar, rye toast, roast pumpkin, avocado, yoghurt mixed with banana and peanut butter, oats, chicken… I squash little bits of whatever I’m eating and feed it to you because those big eyes watch my plate and fork until I do.

When you’re older and start asking me what you were like as a baby, I’ll tell you, above all, you were happy. But I’ll also tell you how easy going you were. You get very excited when the morning grog has worn off and your arms and legs flail about, eager to take the world in your hands. You wrap your legs and arms around me like a koala around a tree, having learnt to hold on better. But you’re just as happy to sit on a mat on the floor or your favourite, a grassy patch of earth, and thrash your arms and toys about proudly.

At our Moms’ Group each week, you leap across the mat to fling yourself at the toys or hug the little kid next to you. I love seeing you see babies, and I imagine there’s some kind of recognition happening when you see another small fry at your eye level. The way you see puppy Yoko. Now that you can stand up straight, with a little help from me, that eye level is meeting all kinds of new sights.

If you ask, I’ll also tell you that I secretly love that you cry when I leave the room. It’s more like a mock-cry, like a mock-charge, daring me to take one more step out of your line of vision. I love the strange faces you make when you whack your toy hammer around. I really love the weird shapes your open mouth makes when you swim with me and I blow water into your face. That’s the best right there. I always turn around to see if anyone else saw it, saw just how sweet you are. I love that we both stretch and rub our eyes the same way when we wake up next to each other.

I love all seven months of you.