I know, I know. I have to stop calling Lincoln the baby. I think it started as a way to remind Nico to be gentle with him. Be soft with him, he's just a baby. Watch out for the baby. That kind of thing. Watch out for the toddler just doesn't have that same ring, that same inherent call for caution.
But now, it's gotten out of hand. The kid is three years old, and I still catch myself saying it. I can blame it to some degree on the fact that he has seemed more like a baby for longer than Nico did because of his small size, his cuddly nature, and the fact that it takes him longer to outgrow those quintessentially infant things like bottles, diapers, and strollers. Seeing him in his backpack walking down the halls of his new school, though, I had to admit that he doesn't look like a baby anymore. He's an honest to goodness kid now.
Which makes me think about how far he has come in the last year. Last October, he was still getting most of his nutrition from bottles, still struggled eating even pureed foods. He couldn't eat a cracker or drink from a cup. For his birthday dinner, we had potato soup and ice cream because that was the only meal we could all enjoy together.
This year, we had steak. And although we served mashed potatoes with it, he didn't want any of that mushy nonsense. He wanted red meat, thank you very much, cooked medium rare and rubbed with fairly spicy seasoning. He drank from his cup when he was thirsty and signed for more when he wanted another bite. Afterward, he finished it off with a giant piece of cake.
Last October, Linc would fall asleep drinking a bottle and then be carried up to his crib, only to wake in the night crying for another bottle. Now, he sleeps in his very own bunk bed, and although he still often has a glass of milk before bed, he hasn't had a bottle in many months and hardly ever wakes in the night. Often in the morning, we find him playing in his room with his toys, talking happily to himself, thoroughly pleased with himself for escaping the "toddler jail" we have tried to construct to keep him in his bed.
Plus, he just understands so much more now. Last night I was reading a Sesame Street book to him, and I got to the page where Cookie Monster introduces you to a bunch of blue stuff. As I was reading, I realized he was signing cookie over and over again, and I had to laugh at him. "No," I said, "Not cookie to eat. This guy's name is Cookie Monster." To which he signed Lincoln cookie, Lincoln cookie and slid off the couch, walked into the kitchen and pointed at the pantry. Lincoln cookie, he signed again, as if to say, "Mom, you are not getting it. I want a cookie."
When I am playing a song he likes and I turn it down or it ends, he signs more music frantically. If I ignore him he walks up and tugs on my pant leg so that he can my attention, then signs it again. I see now that even though he isn't speaking yet, we have conversations with him. Honestly, when Lincoln wants something, there's little doubt what his intent is. The same is true for when he doesn't want something. He'll throw out the go away hand when I try to fix his hair, shake his head no when I try to give him food he doesn't want, or pull away when I am trying to lead him somewhere he doesn't particularly feel like going. Between the actual signs, the pantomime style informal gestures, the remarkably conversational vocalizations, and the unmistakeable expressions, Lincoln gets his point across quite well.
So, I get it. He's not a baby anymore. He's a kid, a preschooler (who is actually in school -- figure that one out), and a force to be reckoned with. In fact, Lincoln has earned another nickname in our house in the past few years. We call him the Lincoln monster, and if you ask Nico why, he's quick to tell you it's because he's diabolical. A true trouble-making mastermind, when he wants to be. Out with calling him baby Lincoln, then, and in with the Lincoln monster. We might not get it monogrammed on his towels, but it works as a transitional moniker du jour.
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