Mama heartbreak of the week: Jonas refuses to be called a baby. It’s not only the name calling sense that he objects to – I’m not so cruel as to call my 22 month old a big baby when he’s sobbing over the dog eating the Cheerios he threw onto the floor — but also in the sweet-talking sense.
“Love you, baby,” I’ll say. Or, “See you later, baby.”
His response: “No baby.” He points and indignant finger at his chest. “Boy. Big boy!”
Like all other mothers since the beginning of time, I want to cry out that it’s too soon. He is still my baby! Diapered bottom, check, rosy cheeks, check, chubby knees, check.
Yesterday, Jonas experienced the crushing loss of his sippy cup full of milk, which I told him couldn’t be brought upstairs to the bathtub.
This is not a new rule, but this time around, probably because he’d had a short nap, hadn’t spent much time outside due to the buckets of rain pouring from the sky, and had just emerged the loser from a brother-against-brother wrestling match, it was too much to take. He began to sob.
I hugged him and said, “Oh, baby, I know. It’s hard.”
Of course, that made him cry harder – “No baby! No baby! Big boy!”
“Well, sometimes life is hard for big boys, too.”
Axel, wisely, chimed in: “Sometimes life is hard for small boys.”
He thought for a moment, adding, “And ants!”