Hugh turns 2 on Monday. This is the only birthday that will rhyme with his name and have the same number of syllables.
We’ll celebrate again this year with a small number of friends, mainly adults. Everyone keeps encouraging me to have a kid party, but I feel like the rest of his life will be kid parties. This is the last year I can get away with hosting a cocktail party in the guise of a birthday party.
Everyone also keeps asking, “Doesn’t time fly?” And while I always answer, “Yes, it does! Can you believe it? 2 already?,” I’m really thinking, well, actually, it feels like a lifetime since December 20 meant nothing to me.
It feels like ages ago since I gave birth in a warm tub of water after hours of excruiating pain and cries of “something’s wrong, I’m sure of it!” It is eons ago that I nursed him back to sleep, watched him take his first steps, stopped using rags to mop up spit up, couldn’t put him in a swing without his head falling forward.
Hugh’s childhood simultaneously stretches out and swallows up time. Next year, I won’t believe that it was only a year ago that I had a boy in diapers who didn’t understand what his birthday was and thought he was 4. Next year, it will seem like a decade since I had friends over for a cocktail party instead of renting a jump castle. Next year, I might not get away with bringing biscuits for his school birthday party.
So I savor this time, knowing that it goes by like Hugh’s running pace, toddler-slow yet still blindingly fast.