Monkey Business

If you don't know this already, my son is the cutest boy that has ever lived. I would die defending that statement. No other person can make me laugh simply by shrugging or finding their bellybutton. The most hilarious part of motherhood for me thus far has been watching my son independently develop quirks that, seriously, were never modeled for him. The shrugging does not seem like it would even be noticeable, but imagine a chubby, blue-eyed one year old boy meandering about in a diaper and a long-sleeve tee. He looks up at me at the table, eyes widened with expectation, realizes Mama is busy, and shrugs his shoulders so purposefully that it looks as if they've fallen two inches in his shirt. His arms hang like a chimp's. And he trots away from me, arms swaying, his steps deliberate and loud. His whole body is expressing disappointment that Mama isn't eternally available to play. His fat feet even drag behind him as he makes his way to his inferior toy box.

Perhaps I shouldn't find my son's disappointment so adorable. If he only knew that Mama was applying to graduate school in order to allow for more possibilities for our family or paying bills so he can sleep in a cozy, heated bedroom. I'm confident in the attention I give my son, so when the shrugs come upon him, I am able to laugh at the monkey that walks away from me. He transforms his body to an ape-like character, never having seen a monkey move except on Baby Einstein. Maybe I'm confirming Darwinism; or maybe I'm merely amazed at the concept of individualism.

I remember being pregnant (all too well) and discussing our baby with my husband, Josh. We would talk about the scientific realities taking place within my body, how one plus one equals two and cells contain DNA and do their job. But it was impossible not to be fascinatingly dumb-founded when thinking of our child taking on characteristics all his own. Case in point: monkey arms. I had nothing to do with creating this primate-like child. He decided, in his small, glorious brain, to shrug so hard his shoulder blades might disconnect, in hopes of getting my attention.

I have many fears as a mother, but one of my biggest, most consumable fears is that I'm going to forget. I never want to forget how his legs roll under his diaper, the sound of his feet slapping the floor as he runs to get me in the morning, how he confuses "Shh" with "Choo-Choo" and puts his index finger by his mouth for both. I never want to forget the monkey arms swaying back and forth. I never even want to forget the slaps I get in the face as I pick him up from the gym or church nursery: he runs to me so quickly his stumbly feet can't keep up, I pick him up and swing him around, and he is so full of thrill that he puts his thick, little hands to my face--almost as if he is confirming it's me--and moves them so quickly in excitement that it ends up whacking me.

I know there will be a day when he rolls his eyes when I pick him up because he doesn't want to leave his friends. There will also be a day when the stories of his monkey business cause him to withdraw, blush, or change the subject. There might even be a day when he sees me and decides to run not toward me, but away. For now, knowing the depths of our beautifully mutual admiration, I'd rather be slapped.