Tonight, while Carter and I were quietly rocking before bedtime, I interrupted the silence and tugged his fingers up to my mouth to blow on them, composing a super obnoxious noise. His appreciative, wide eyes blinked up to meet mine before he gave me a satisfying little giggle.
I did it because I could. Because those are my fingers.
For the majority of the first year of his life, the only body parts Carter was fully aware of were his gurgling, hungry stomach and his squealing vocal cords. He didn't even know he had fingers. Or toes or legs, knees, feet or elbows.
Heck, I'm still not sure he knows he has a nose or hair yet.
So, since he didn't know what was what and that all those parts were connected to him, I figured I'd claim ownership. Just temporarily. I had to take care of those parts and keep them growing, anyway.
Lately when I nibble on
his my ear or examine the dimples in his my hands, I can't ignore the nudging thought that the older he gets, the more parts he's going to gradually be reclaiming as his own. He's not going to let me squeeze him, kiss him or straight up get in his face just to whisper to him in funny voices and sniff the top of his soapy afterbath head. Not entirely because he won't want me to - but because according to today's social etiquette, I'd be an outright weirdo. Because if you try to lift up your fifteen year old's shirt and give him a raspberry, chances are that more than a couple people will cross you off their Christmas card mailing list.
For now, I have delicious, boundary free snuggle buddy. I gobble up his disgusting, sloppy openmouthed kisses and request them again and again. Soon they'll dwindle, and all I'll have is the trust that my memories are real and a young man that learned affection by way of a mother who's marveled him.
In summary: Just me freaking out again that I got one of those babies that grows. Carry on.