We spent the weekend away for a conference and I was too lazy to pack a bottle for T and the milk that goes with it. With all the excitement of everyone in the same room and coasters to chew on, T didn't seem to mind that "Ba Ba" wasn't around for his morning pick me up.
Yesterday, however, the context was right. Monday morning came like it always does and T peered out from the crib bars in his green monkey jammers and asked, "Where Ba Ba?"
As Hub and I had discussed on the seven hour drive home, it seemed like a good stopping point. Plus, we'd get a slight respite from cleaning the fermenting bottles that tend to collect near the kitchen sink. Is that on my chore list? I forget....
When I explained to T that bottles were banished, old news, for the weak of heart, scat...he whimpered for a moment. Then I told T that he is too big for bottles. That he is a big boy and that he can drink his milk out of a cup. I even gave an inch and offered to serve the milk in a sippy cup. A stopover point between baby and man.
"No want sippy cup!" T spat. Then, taking a different tactic, T gathered himself and calmly said, "I'm not big. I'm ittl...er."
Funny, T couldn't quite say that he's plain "little." To acknowledge his littlenes must cut into the core of his being. At this proud stage in his life, all of two years and six months of age, T identifies as a bigger than life Superman, who confidently offers, "Mama, I help you," when my road rage spills over at the driver of the car in front of me at the coffee drive-thru line.
T's preferred nick names include, in this order: Big Guy, Big Boy, Superman and Bo Bo (not to be confused with Ba Ba).
But...but, but, but, but...but (as T always says when he's gathering his thoughts), NEVER in a million years call the kid CUTE, even if you need a Superman because the guy in front of you in the coffee line orders seven variations of an extra quarter shot, no whip, but nutmeg sprinkles, mocha latte. Because to T, cute and Superman don't mix. Cute means: tiny, tiny baby, BabyN and people too small for spotting punch buggies (VW bugs). And T can most definitely spot a punch buggy.
So yesterday, without a tantrum or big crocodile tears to demonstrate his loss over dear old Ba Ba, T stated his position and also acknowledged that bridge he's crossing between babyhood and something...bigger.