For a couple of days, Mac called himself “Map.” I asked him his name all of the time, just wanting to hear him say it, “Map, Map, Map.” Then, just like that, he was saying Mac. I rocked him tonight and asked again, just to be sure we’d really moved on from Map. And there is was, plain as day: Mac.

I try to be grateful for every change in him, knowing how lucky we are to have a healthy boy, who is growing and learning and changing. But for some reason, hearing him abandon Map so quickly made my heart break a little bit. I rocked him a few minutes longer, feeling nostalgic for the present. For who he is on this very day in March.

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I sometimes wonder if every mom loves her kids as much as I love Mac. And then, of course, it feels obvious. Of course they do. Then it hits me: all of these women are walking around, feeling this way all of the time? Like their heart is just walking on the sidewalk, carrying monster trucks and pretzels, waving at the neighbors?

It’s a vulnerable life, if you think about it.

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Mac recently started throwing tantrums. It felt like they came out of nowhere, though Toddler Wise tells me otherwise. So we’re learning a whole slew of things about what frustrates him, what he wishes he had the words to say.

Sometimes the tantrums make sense (see yesterday when he was exhausted from swim lessons and starving). Sometimes they make no sense at all (see last week when he was rested and had toys and snacks galore).

It’s the first season, since he was a newborn, that I sometimes feel in over my head. Am I disciplining him right? Does he respect us enough? Am I being stern enough? Too stern? Am I developing him into a gentle, kind, authority-respecting, but creative, positive, hard-working and energetic member of society!?

You can make yourself crazy.

I’ve recently tried to take the approach that if you care enough to make yourself crazy with questions, you’re probably doing an OK job.

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Mac helps me fold the laundry a lot. And by fold, I mean unfold. His favorite is to dive into the warm basket and announce each hot item. “Hot sleep sack!” “Hot lambie!” “Hot pants!” There’s really nothing like hearing a one-year-old say hot pants.

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Mac loves having his forearm rubbed. He asks me to do the left, then the right, then both at the same time. His tiny forearms almost make me tear up when I look at them. They’re so little, with no hair. I can’t believe someday they will look like a man’s arms.

We took him to a preschool on Tuesday, to decide if he should enroll in a twos class twice a week. He jumped right into the group, playing alongside the mostly 3-year-olds. He barely looked back at us the entire time we were there.

When we left, Chris said, “Well, I’m sold!” I looked at him, my mouth probably wide open. “You are!?” I asked with equal parts shock and awe. I was holding back tears the entire time, fighting the homesick feeling for my baby. How are both of the men in my life so ready for this when I’m not? I just kept thinking about his tiny forearms. They aren’t going to be tiny that much longer. What if he comes home from school one day and he doesn’t want me to rub them before nap time?

Everything changes so fast. Time is a thief. Babies don’t keep. Long days, short years. Ah! All of the cliches are just so true in motherhood.