My baby is no longer a baby, and this is very difficult for me to accept. I still call him angel-baby when I stroke his hair or hug him. I still murmur ‘sweet baby,’ to him as I comfort him. But language cannot hold the truth at bay: My child is a 30 lb. toddler. He’s strong-willed, and creative, and very funny. He has mad language skills. Yesterday, when I asked him if he was ready for bath-time, he threw a casual “sounds good” at me.
As crazy as this sounds, there are times when I still miss having him inside me. This was an intense sensation in the weeks after he was first born—I felt hollow and couldn’t figure out why. I now know that I was in the throes of postpartum depression, anxiety, and insomnia. But that’s a story for another time.
I don’t feel it as intensely now as I did then, but every once in a while a wave of sadness washes over me as I watch him get bigger, more independent. He is learning new things all the time. Our little one can now differentiate between a chorus and a verse, even in a song he’s never heard before. He recognizes when characters in books are sad. He can (and will) tell you (often) that a car needs a chassis, a front and rear bumper, and a motor. And headlights.
Growing up is what we all do, if we’re lucky, and it means learning about the world. Not all of that learning is fun stuff…
