A Real Boy

When you cut a baby's hair, he becomes a real boy.

He laughs at the sound of his farts, or grins before he passes gas. He laughs when he pulls your shirt up to nurse (peek-a-boob?). He bangs his face against the tile floor and wails when he doesn't get what he wants. He launches himself off anything and everything. He gets marker all over his clothes. He dumps his entire cup of water all over the floor. He pulls half of grandma's cookbooks off the shelf. He blows raspberries on your belly to make you laugh. He growls low in his throat just because. He claps when he's happy. He yells at the top of his lungs just to hear his voice.

He becomes a toddler.

Thinking about the transformation gets my throat tight. I looked at every picture in my phone after it happened. I tried to commit that babyish fly-away sweetness to memory. I kept a lock from his first haircut for his baby book. There's no going back.