At 18 months old, everything about him is icing. His Little Man walk, his hilariously growing vocabulary (“goggles!”), his obsession with cats, lift-the-flap books, and any ball that can be hurled, kicked or slammed into a net.
Even his tantrums are freaking adorable. When he sprints away from me in a crowded park, racing toward the nearest body of water, I smile at his exaggerated motions and bow-legged steps.
When I say it's time to go and he arches his back and slaps me on the chin, I can't help but hug his squeezey little self. “No hitting, baby, but ohhh how I want to zerbert your belly right now.”
He is all about Mama. He takes 3-hour naps. He eats almost everything served to him without a single "eewww."
When I pull out the camera, he is an easy photo-op waiting to happen. He does not intentionally pout, give his sister bunny ears or twist his hips in an uncomfortably provocative way. He usually looks straight at me as if to say: “I know.”
This moment, this brief space between babyhood and toddler-hell, is so fleeting. I remember this deliciousness with his older siblings, and those memories still carry me through many a current challenge.
I remember well. So I'm relishing now. And trusting that his shine is just a glimmer of the little boy soon to come.
As Hubby likes to say: "Stay gold, Ponyboy."
As I like to point out: The golden halo of light in that photo...it's no coincidence.