Really, I just don't think that there's any such thing as too many images of my eldest loving on my youngest. As much as Manny may love Iohan, I think that his toddler-love pales in comparison with Jonah's big brother love. "Let me just see that cute little chubby guy," Jonah pleads when Iohan emerges from his nest in the morning. "Who's got you, little guy? Is that your daddy?" Jonah asks in sweet, high-pitched tones imitative of the "mother-ese" that I use when lovin' on my baby. Jonah tells me, though, that he doesn't want another sibling. I imagine that he thinks that Iohan will always be so small, face breaking with a huge smile, chubby hands and surprisingly sharp-nailed fingers reaching out to grab our faces to mouth them. With my eldest baby about to turn four, and my youngest far too close to crawling, away from me, I sometimes wish that I could freeze time. Jonah's future self, at, let's say, six years old is still a mystery to me and as such is exciting: He'll be reading! Playing sports! Buried in Legos! But experiencing the transition from babyhood to big babyhood and knowing what comes next for the third time now, and knowing what to expect, I find myself mourning the passing of tinyness more that I've done before. I almost wish that, like Jonah, I had no idea about what would come next, but the knowledge throws these baby days into beautiful relief, and all I've left to do is soak it in while I can.
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