My baby turned three this weekend. My uterus is too nostalgic, and confused by the mixed signals the poor thing is receiving from my rational brain versus my squishy mummy heart, to write anything at all (not that I normally use my uterus to write, you understand).
So I’m sharing with you a post that I wrote three short months ago – when I didn’t know how good I had it – still secure in knowing that my baby was only two years old, and would stay that way forever and ever…
My baby isn’t a baby anymore
My two-year old, after an extended dance remix tantrum, has lobbied for a pants optional day. We weren’t planning to venture past the front door today, so I am letting it go. Besides, there is nothing quite as cute as squishy two-year thighs beneath a nappy clad bottom and an excessively precious plaid button-down shirt. With my second child leaving babyhood, I’m realising just how poignant and fleeting those squishy thighs are, and how much I am going to miss that soft toddler roundness.
My four-year old is darling, gorgeous, brilliantly sweet – but he’s got no baby left in him. He is all angles and elbows and superhero karate kicks. And the knowledge that this is just moments away from happening to my little one is hard to take. I want to squeeze his two-year-oldness forever, just like this, tantrums and all. (This, mind you, is on a morning with a good night’s sleep behind me – tomorrow-me might want to slap the silliness out of the sentimental today-me.)
How is it that someone who didn’t plan to have kids in the first place; who, once she opened that door just a smidge, felt that she could possibly just manage to squeeze out and live with one; and who barely managed to keep her sanity during her second, miserable, hospital visit-laden pregnancy, could possibly be thinking yearningly of babies?
(Stay tuned for more excessive sentimentality when his big brother turns five at the end of the summer…)