BUCKING THE SYSTEM: MILESTONES MAKE MEMORABLE MAYHEM FOR MOM

This column can be summed up in two words: First birthday.

The professional moms were right.

I freely admit that the milestones I so looked forward to as a new mom were the very ones the professional moms cautioned me against. Now those feelings are coming back on me with the force of a jagged-jawed boomerang.

Like all new moms, I've rejoiced in every milestone Jerry has reached. Of course, my child IS special: He's done just about everything early except grow vertically, and he's not a difficult baby to love. In fact, I could honestly say that everybody loves JerryBuck (one word).

I'm not biased.

Recently, though, something happened, and that wonderful baby lost that cherubesque veneer and became a "big boy." Dear Jerry turned a year old this week, and it's like he hit preschool puberty or something.

The child's really not doing anything differently than he's been doing it for the last two months, but it all seems to be amplified now. He's quicker, he's louder and he's got Patrick's personality and mine all mixed together.

I'm afraid he's going to blow any second from the pressure.

I remember how innocent Patrick and I were just a few months ago: We couldn't wait until Jerry discovered his hands; until he could talk; until he could walk. We actually thought life with Jerry would be perfect once he became mobile and could voice his needs.

We were young then, fools in love with ourselves and with our son. We're smarter now.

Now we realize that knowing how to ease off the bed is aggravating rather than cute when it happens at 5 a.m., and talking is not positive when the only words you know are "no" and "ee ii ee ii oh."

And pacifiers are the creation of a sick mind who knew when he developed them (it was definitely a man's creation) that they were even more addictive than cigarettes.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that my baby has become a toddler before my eyes. He's got teeth, mobility and a fresh haircut, and he's ready to take on the world.

My desire is quite simple: I want my baby back. I want that cute little boy who liked to go to sleep lying on Patrick's chest returned to me this instant.

The crazed toddler running around my house kicking a $40 Tickle Me Elmo around is not the child I endured major surgery for. This child belongs in his own genus, along with all of the other 1-year olds who think it's cute to eat toilet brushes and twist off furniture knobs.

Jerry is not a bad child; I'm just an overprotective mother. He wants table food and a little freedom to explore his ever-broadening world, while I want to continue feeding him jar food and putting him in his playpen.

I know it's time to let baby Jerry grow up; in fact, I contradict myself all of the time by nudging him towards his next milestone even as I try to drag him back a couple of steps.

The professional moms reminded me this week that they had predicted these feelings, and they told me to get used to it, because I would feel like this the rest of my life.

They suggested I take lots of pictures and enjoy the milestones, because Jerry would grow up whether I liked it or not. Besides, they said, with his coming of age this week, I passed a milestone of my own.

I can now count myself among the ranks of professional moms.

~Tamara Zellars Buck is a staff writer for the Southeast missourian.