Lately, Mason's been struggling with all his new-found independence. He crawls like an old pro, he barely has to hold on when he stands up, and he started cruising around the furniture a couple days ago. I'd bet money that he'll learn to walk in California this week. It's all just happening so fast now. I mean, he's going to walk. On his own feet. He's going to be able to get from place to place by himself and then what the heck will he need me for?
Still though, in the midst of all his developments, Mason's been clinging to me. He always has, but now it's like he's scared I'll disappear forever if he can't see me for thirty seconds. He follows me around all day saying "mamamama" and if I try to do something completely absurd like go to the bathroom, he's climbing into my lap. How do you wipe with a baby in your lap? Seriously.
Really though, I don't mind at all. I'm flattered, actually. He loves me, I'm his favorite person ever, and believe me, I feel the same way about him. It's just that when I try to get the little bugger to hold still to, say, change his diaper or cut his nails, he can't wait to get away from me. He flails around, squirming and wiggling, until I finally give up out of exhaustion and let him scamper off, diaperless with jagged fingernails.
I remember growing up, turning thirteen or fourteen and hating it, wanting to turn back time to a time when everything was easy and I could just be a kid again. I also wanted to do whatever I felt like, without having to answer to anyone. Torn. I bet that's how Mason feels.
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