My baby is not a baby anymore. This hit me at some point this weekend. I have known it was coming for awhile, but it still hit me just the same. I know lots of people that call their youngest child “the baby” even when they are six, seven and eight years old. I think that is a little unfair. Calling someone the baby means you expect them to act like the baby. I now have an almost kindergartner and a preschooler. It would be unfair to lump them both as preschoolers. Maybe one preschooler and one toddler. He even feels like he’s moving past toddler pretty rapdily. Put some words in his mouth and he’ll be ready for anything.
So at almost-two, he is getting his canine teeth. The eye teeth. The fangs. Whatever you call them. He is drooling like a baby (but I can say this now, because he is no longer a baby!) The weird thing is, one eye tooth has pretty much come in. The others are busting through at breakneck speed. He no longer has that telltale gap next to his front teeth that always said “baby” to me. He’s tall for his age, so he often gets mistaken for older than he is, until he smiles and most people would recognize a half-full mouth of teeth and age him down a little. With that gap disappearing, he’s going to look 3 in no time.
He runs, he decides what shirt to wear everyday, he tells me when he wants to eat, and when he’s tired. My baby is gone. I get a little, tiny, teeny, bit sad at the idea of not having any more. And then in an instant it passes. I love the size of our family. It’s just right for us. I remember worrying there wouldn’t be enough love for this last member who joined our family. I couldn’t have been more wrong.