Sprinting

He picks up his Winnie the Pooh phone and puts it to his ear, "'Lo?"

"Who is it, Sawyer?"

"Daddeeeee? 'Lo? Lo? Daddeeeee?"

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He has figured out how to take one of the little play chairs and move it to the big chair and climb from one to the other.

The other day I came out of the bathroom to find him on the kitchen counter licking the spoon I used to scoop dog food.

"Mmmmm, nummy."

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"Momma, up? Juice? Cheese?"

"You're hungry I guess?"

"Num Nums. NUM NUMS. NUM NUMS!"

I get in him in his booster and set out some snacks. Since he only eats three or four things, quickly his arms are reaching out.

"Mo? Mo, momma? Mo cheese?"

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He climbs up on my lap, point to my features, narrating his journey.

"Eyes. Nose. Mouf."

"Be gentle baby."

"Do niiiiiiice?" and he pets my hair like he does the cat.

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He comes and pulls on my uniform of yoga pants as I wash the morning's dishes.

"Poop!!!"

"You did poops, huh? Want a new diaper?"

"Diapeeeeeee" he giggles and runs to the changing table, opens the cabinet, gets out a diaper and brings it to me, indicated my role in life is to change his stank ass.

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I hear the monitor crackle in the morning. He talks to himself for a few minutes, playing with his blankets and stuffed toys. When he's ready, he lets me know.

"Up? Momma? Up?"

Since I can't answer him over the monitor, he gets impatient.

"Up? LESGO!"

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Today, Sawyer is sixteen months old. My last baby is sprinting. Part of me stands by amazed at the speed with which he learns and grows and I watch the journey, excited for what's to come, where he'll go next.

The other part of me keeps whispering in his ear as I put him in his crib every night, "Slow down baby. Slow down."