My baby turns 5

In honor of Gorby's fifth birthday (kein ayin hara pu pu pu, I am an 80 year old grandmother), I am writing an entry all about him. Because when the clock strikes midnight, my youngest child will be five and I will no longer have any babies at home and I will be a little sad. Ironically, for many years, this was my fondest wish. I saw a mother in the parking lot today with four kids six and under and I thought, "Holy cannoli! That woman must be insane. How can she possibly care for all those tiny children?"

And then I remembered that I DID THAT. On a plane to Israel. And back. In restaurants. On long car trips. And all that time I thought, over and over, when will this end? And suddenly, I will wake up tomorrow and it will be done. I no longer have babies. I have no bottles, no diaper bags, no pacifiers, no adorable little onesies, no 7 o'clock sharp bedtime, no little boys' curls until age 3, no first days of preschool. . .

Now, lest you think me uncharacteristically sentimental, let me remind you that I did originally nickname my youngest son "Stalin" in this blog. This was not accidental. Gorby is all kinds of annoying, like, the majority of the time. In fact, Big Shot Husband came up with an even better nickname for him recently: "Captain Annoying." He is so extremely talented at being annoying, I believe it is safe to say that he could be a professional.

He started out life in a very traumatic way. For me. He was almost born in the car, which meant that I had him without an epidural. I liken his birth to that of a farmer woman who squats in the field and just, oops, out comes the baby. But he was perfect and healthy, thank G-d, and five years later I have almost gotten over the  PTSD I suffered from the primitive conditions in which he was born. No epidural, no five-star hospital (no time to get there), no IV (!), and a resident delivery. The indignities.

He was an easy baby, my Gorby. I could take him anywhere. He was the only one who wasn't a complete embarrassment in public. And I would mistakenly say this very thing to other people. Word of advice, NEVER TELL ANYONE WHAT AN EASY BABY YOU HAVE BECAUSE IT IS A GUARANTEE THAT HE WILL BECOME POSSESSED BY AN EVIL RUSSIAN DICTATOR IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT WHEN HE IS ABOUT THREE YEARS OLD AND IT WILL TAKE YEARS BEFORE HE BECOMES TOLERABLE. I hope.

So here we are, on the eve of Gorby's fifth birthday and I can honestly say that the only reason I haven't sold him to the Gypsies is because a) I unfortunately have to be really careful about my adherence to the law in all situations because of Big Shot Husband, and b) I would miss him.

I would miss his little endearing habits like asking me over and over, "What's your name?" with a weird little smile on his face. I am sure Sanjay would also miss this (see post "Reader Comment and Are You Jewish?"). Or his daily calls on my cell phone crying because I didn't pick him up from school. Like every other day of the week. Or his interrogations, like on the day he called and said:

"Hi Mommy, what are you doing?"
"Oh, I am about to go pick up your siblings from school."
"Who are you with?"
"Mrs. E and Mrs F."
"Are you at Starbucks?"

So busted!!
How is it that he only knows like 10 of his letters but has memorized my cell phone number and is adept at dialing it. Over and over. Day in and day out. For the hour and a half a day I am not with him.

And though he gets on my nerves (and those of every other member of the household) at least thrice daily, he is, after all, my baby. When he got up from the table after dinner this evening he said, "Captain Annoying strikes again! What's your name? Can I be un-scused?"

I welled up a little. Because one of these days, Captain Annoying will become Captain Mildly Irritating and then Captain You Thought I'd Never Grow Up Mommy But Look At Me I Did. But until then, I will sneak into his room every night and stare at his sweaty little head, rub cream on his bumpy little eczema fingers, and say to myself, "Remember how cute he is when he is all up in your face tomorrow. Breathe deeply. And DON'T call those Gypsies. You have Big Shot Husband's reputation to protect."