Fifteen minutes ago, I swear, he was a baby.
No, not a teeny one. But still, my baby. Riding my hip. Fat round feet almost impossible to fit into shoes. Delightfully plump and oh, so sweet to breathe in.
He’s my baby, and so it’s o.k. that I’m sitting here knitting a precious sweater (that’s not as blue as it looks here!) for my bestie’s newest little one. That baby, who is still being knit together, will be tiny, and pink, and fresh, and make my baby look like a giant. But it’s o.k. Really.
But then I had to go and cut those long strands of blonde fluff hanging in his eyes and making the cashier at the Walmart ask how old my little girl is. And all of a sudden, fifteen minutes later…
Not so much baby. Mostly toddler, actually. Holding his own on the swings. (Seriously! This is my second kid in a row to learn how to swing at less than 18 months old. Not fair.) Chasing chickens. Doing just fine managing his own juice glass of kefir in the morning and not spilling a drop.
And so it goes. Fifteen minutes, guys. I swear it was just fifteen minutes. But that’s all it took.