Moving out of the way -- a little too fast

There's a saying among my aunties and Grandmas and their friends about babies and walking.

When a child starts walking, they usually say, in a knowing voice, "Mmmm-hmmm. Getting out of the way for the next one."

Meaning, somehow the child intrinsically knows that Mommy is going to need to free up her arms for a new baby -- either one who is already cooking, or who is soon to be created. So the child starts walking, making carrying him or her around less and less necessary.

This certainly turned out to be true in my case. I found out I was pregnant at the end of June, and Cary and Dean started walking 4th of July weekend. You should have heard the clucking among all my female relatives. Their truism had been proven right again: Cary and Dean were "getting out of the way for the next one."

Since then, they have been making strides toward independence steadily and impressively. They can go up and down stairs on their own, and have even started -- unprompted -- trying to navigate stairs on two feet, instead of on all fours. They are doing much better about using a fork at dinner. They have started saying "poop," and pointing to their diapers, after pooping. (Yes, I know that is closing the barn door after the horses are out, but it shows they are aware of their bodily functions and have a name for them -- one step closer to potty-training.) They understand more and more, and their language skills constantly blow my mind! Cary and Dean both use time-related words like "after" and "almost," which is really advanced (in my opinion), and Cary has started saying things like, "Mommy, too" when he wants me to join in a fun game of twirl around the room until you're so dizzy you fall down, or some such. And Dean said, "Wuv you," to me two nights ago on his way up the stairs for his bath -- without me saying it first or asking him to say it. He just said it. On his own. As Cary blew me kisses. Ummm, color me wrapped around their little chubby fingers! I absolutely swooned. They are amazing.

They've even started doing things that are developmentally appropriate, but scary! Trying to walk down the stairs, instead of crawl, as I mentioned, is one thing. Be still my heart!
But the worst is the running. Oh, the running.

Here's a story for you:

This weekend, I took the boys by myself to my parents' house so Lester could paint Curve Ball's room (the green turned out really pretty and not Mountain Dewy at all!! Yay!) On Sunday, I decided to stop off at my Granddad's house in DC to visit him, since I hardly ever get to see him and he's 96 and lives alone, and loves, loves, loves to see the boys. I pulled up in front of the house, and got the boys out of the car one-by-one. I took their hands to walk them up Granddad's front steps, and they BOTH refused. "Nooooo!" they yelled. "No. No. No!"
No amount of pleading, cajoling or bribing could get them up the porch steps.
So I decided to walk up the steps myself to put all my bags down and I just sucked it up: I was going to have to carry them (as hard as it is for me right now to do that) one-by-one up the steps.
As I turned to come down the steps, both boys took. off. running. I hobbled down the stairs as fast as I could, but not nearly fast enough to prevent both toddlers from running INTO THE STREET!
Granddad lives in the city, not on some suburban cul-de-sac. And they ran, not into the narrow street that Granddad lives on, but into the cross street, a hugely-busy, wide main thoroughfare, that is normally teeming with speeding cars.
My heart literally was pounding out of my chest. I SCREAMED at them to stop, but this - of course - just made them laugh, as they ran down the middle of the street at top speeds, one straight down the middle, the other veering off at an angle.
I honestly thought I was going to lose it.
Me and my big pregnant belly, tired and sluggish and unable to move quickly -- running after these two boys who had somehow gotten super-quick, seemingly overnight! It was horrible.
I finally caught up to them, and had to basically drag them back up the street. They were both fighting me and pulling away; Cary even sat down in the middle of the street at one point. I had to use real force to get them out of the street and onto the sidewalk.
And then, I eventually had to muster the strength to pick them BOTH up at one time, one tucked under my right arm, the other under my left. They kicked and cried and fought against me! It was a real struggle, and one I've honestly never experienced before with them. By the grace of God, I was able to heave and pant and plod my way into my Granddad's house, where I literally dropped them both -- crying and angry -- on the floor.
And then I burst into tears.

Praise God (seriously) that there were NO cars coming down the street in either direction (this is really unheard of). And Praise God neither the boys nor I fell during this scary scene.

Later that night, Lester and I made a joint decision that I can no longer go out by myself with them while a million months pregnant. And I'm fine with that. I don't need a scare like that again anytime soon. Lord knows I don't. Ugh! (Thinking about it now still makes my heart race.)

As I look back on that day, and their ability to RUN away from me, I see that they really are getting bigger, stronger, faster, and more willful and independent. In other words, getting out of the way for the next baby.

I know I'm going to need to focus on Curve Ball when she gets here, and that I'll need them to be big boys who help Mommy, not hinder me, while I'm trying to take care of a wriggly, screaming, needy newborn.

But I have to say: I liked it so much better when Cary and Dean wanted nothing more than to stand right by my side, holding my hand, happily following Mommy's lead.

I know this is natural. And necessary.

But I already miss them. Their little hands in mine. Their baby-ness. Their needing me.

It may be true that they may have to move out of the way for their little sister.

But I wish they didn't have to move so fast -- and so far.