It hit me today. As I'm holding my oldest, her being semi-asleep as I carry her to her room, she's a lot bigger than I thought. Still bird-boned (that is an accurate description of her bones) still eats about a tablespoon of food to survive (I offer her much more than that, promise), but there she is, although the 18 mo size of her dress fits perfectly, she's getting too tall for it, thank goodness for bloomers. She's just, big.
She runs with expert grace around the playground, faster than some of the boys that are her size or bigger. Climbing up ladders and other playground things that children her age are just trying out. If she was tall enough and her arms could stretch, I bet she'd venture the monkey bars...
As I was taking her inside today, my mind flashed forward to a time when we're coming home from a gymnastics meet, cheerleading competition, (soccer game?), and she's tired and needs to take a nap. I cry just thinking about the child unbuckling herself and taking herself to her own bed.
I'd like to tell you these are tears of happiness that I'm crying. But they aren't. It makes me so sad to think that one day I won't be able to carry my bird-boned baby to bed. And don't get me started on the other one, I'm going to wake up and she's going to be a toddler, and you're going to get another sob-post from me...
I'm terrible at savoring moments. I am guilty of can't-wait-for-this-stage-to-pass-osis. But, not last night, as I laid both of my babies down to bed. Not this morning, as I carried both of their fragile self's down for nap time. Today I'm drinking it in. And it proves to be a sweet, but very heavy drink.
Drink it in y'all...
LA
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