When Gray was about ten weeks old and nursing every hour, I called my mom crying that he wouldn’t even go to my husband long enough for me to shower and dry my hair.
“Just wait,” she said. “Just wait until the first time he cries and wants his daddy. It will knock the wind out of you.”
And today, five days short of 20 months old, Graham rounded the corner faster than his little toddler legs could carry him, and his sock-covered feet slid on the hardwood floors. I heard the BONK. His top teeth went through his little bottom lip. There was blood. And amidst the hysterical sobs and scared whimpers, I cradled him in my arms and suddenly heard him cry, “Dada.”
Poor kid is blabbering whatever words he can think of to tell me he’s hurt.
And luckily Matt is working from home today and heard the commotion and came right in to scoop up his big boy.
And luckily G is fine and they are now outside doing yard work while I sit here catching my breath, from the wind being knocked right out of me.
And yet again I have further confirmation that my mother is always, always right.