Tag Archives: baby

nineteen months in counting.

9 Jun

We were playing with rakes. It wasn’t my idea, but my job is, after all, to serve his every whim, so when he handed me that giant green rake I took hold of it from him. Both our rakes were plastic, so I figured no harm would come from letting him play with one. Besides, I had my eye trained on the little bugger. Nothing was gonna happen to him. Not on my watch.

I went about attempting to show him how to rake, which I think he began to get the hang of. We then raked a corner of the yard… and we raked… and we raked… and we raked. How long can this kid rake the fucking grass? I thought to myself, sneakily checking the facebook app on my phone for the millionth time. I took a break, leaning on my rake and watching him go at it. The shape of his rake, the same as mine, gave me an idea. The next time he lifted his big eyes up towards me I shifted the rake so that its body leaned against my abdomen. Holding it with my left hand, I began to fake-strum the plastic fingers while scatting the Sanford & Son theme song.

“Bow Bow BWA NAH! Bow Bow BWA NAH BWA NAH Bwow!”

After a good ten or twelve seconds of this, I glanced back down at him. His naive eyes held so much confusion in them. What was I doing? I heaved a sigh.

“Right. You’re a baby. You don’t know what a guitar is. Sorry.”

I do that all the time; apologize to him when I say something or do something that he doesn’t understand. The irony is that he doesn’t comprehend why I’m saying “sorry” in the first place, and yet I find I can’t stop for the life of me.

I then went back to raking, hoping that no one staying at the B&B noticed my foolish attempt to seem cool to a nineteen month old. Hoping maybe by now he had tired of this raking business, I looked back down at him to ask if he wanted to go back in the tent to drink the strawberry-blueberry-raspberry-every kind of berry smoothie has mom had made for him. And what did I see?

He was strumming his rake; a big smile stretched across his pudgy face.

I was stunned.

I wish I could remember what it’s like to be his age. The age where you think that you water the leaves of plants because you can’t comprehend the concept of roots. The age where the simple task of someone picking you up by the hands and spinning you around and around in circles solves every skinned knee and fall down. The age where bugs are mysterious and dogs are ginormous. The age where someone playing peek-a-book with you is the most enjoyable past time in your entire life.

The age where you see your twenty-one year old babysitter being goofy by using a rake as a faux guitar and, even though you have no idea what she’s doing, you mimic her every move.

Seeing that he was copying me, a similar grin to his crossed my face and I began to play along with him. “You go! You’re gonna be a rock star someday! The next Mic Jagger!” I told him as we continued playing. He continued smiling at me, never having any clue what a Mic Jagger is/was.

Oh to be a child again.