The journey of watching my child grow: from baby to little person

Lately, I’ve found myself just watching him.

Not in the distracted, half-on-my-phone kind of way. I mean really watching him. The way he moves through the house. The way he reacts to things. The way his little face shifts through emotions like a grown person navigating a full day of life.

He’s one, almost two.

And he is no longer that baby who lay on his back staring at the ceiling fan, cooing at shadows and babbling at nothing in particular. He walks now confidently, purposefully like someone who knows exactly where he’s going, even if it’s just to the snack cupboard. He talks too. Not full sentences, but enough words stitched together with strong intention. We understand him. He understands us. That alone feels wild. And then there are the tantrums.

Not the quick, distracted cries of infancy. These are deliberate. If he doesn’t get his way, he doesn’t just protest, he commits. He stays angry. He sulks, he folds into himself dramatically and gives us that look. The one that says, “I cannot believe this is my life.” It’s almost as if he understands the pressures of existence: bills? Deadlines? Office politics? Surely not. But the intensity suggests otherwise.

Somewhere along the way, he developed opinions.

Time moves differently when they’re this small. With my eldest his beloved “boeta” I documented everything. Every wobble. Every first word. Every random Tuesday milestone. My camera roll was overflowing. I was so afraid of missing something that I filmed it all.

With this one, something shifted. It felt more important to live in the moment. To be present. To not constantly see him through a lens. And now, ironically, I don’t have much to look back at. Fewer videos. Fewer tiny recorded memories. Just flashes stored in my mind — his determined walk, the way he randomly bursts into song, the softness of his cheeks when he’s sleepy.

I sometimes wonder if motherhood gets quieter the second time around. Less performative. More internal.

Then there’s this new phase: the “Daddy” phase.

When his dad leaves for work in the morning, he runs to the door. He waves. He sometimes cries long after it’s closed. First thing when he wakes up, still tangled in sleep, it’s “Daddy… Daddy…” that fills the room.

And yes, if I’m honest, it stings a little.

After all, I did carry him for nine months. I grew him cell by cell inside my body. I laboured him into this world. But love isn’t transactional, and children don’t keep score. They just love freely and loudly in whatever direction feels safe at the time.

I had almost forgotten that his older brother did the exact same thing at this age. I remember how insecure I felt back then wondering what I was doing wrong. Funny how memory softens over time. Now, that same little boy can talk to me for hours. We laugh. We debate. We share stories. The season shifts. The bond deepens. This too will pass.

Tonight, I watched my “not-so-much-a-baby-anymore” smile on command for a photo. Actually pose. When did that happen? When did he learn that cameras mean grin?

He walks around the house singing his favourite songs in his own remix “pinkle pinkle, litto staaa” and a passionate rendition of “gumba, gumba.” He doesn’t just sing them; he requests them. He drags us into the lounge, demanding music and insisting we dance along. And we do.

Because somewhere between babbling and bossiness, between tantrums and twinkle twinkle, he became a little person.

A person with preferences. With moods. With humour. With stubborn streaks and bursts of affection.

And I’m standing here wondering when it all happened. When did the baby stage quietly slip through my fingers?

Time doesn’t ask permission. It just moves.

And all I can do is watch, hold on where I can, and try not to blink too long.

tracy-lynn@[email protected]

Weekend Argus