It’s spreading like the plague.
Babies all around me are turning one, growing up and quite frankly, doing it way too fast.
In less than two weeks, my little girl will be joining the ranks.
My precious, once 8lb 5.6oz, 21.5″ measuring baby is going to be toddling around soon.
She’s going to be a toddler.
When did I graduate from raising a baby to a toddler?
There used to be a time when her body fit perfectly along your forearm, when she could barely hold her head up and was just beginning to understand a smile.
And now, I’m lucky if she lets me carry her in a sling, let alone fits into one. Where did all the time go?
Do «sane» mothers exist? I constantly feel conflicting emotions, from excitement for all the new «firsts» ahead, to disappointment from all the one’s we’ve already passed. One minute I’m applauding my little girl’s independence and the next I’m crying and trying to convince her to stay little. Really little. Forever.
Is this why people keep having children? Because secretly we’re just grasping at attaining these first year feelings as much as we possibly can? We’re just junkies for first smiles, first giggles and first steps?
The rational part of me knows that up ahead, we’ve got a million firsts to tackle still. From running, to reading, to saying «I love you,» but I can’t stop this demented, first-time mother urge to cling to this first year for as long as I can.
I think I’m on board with my friend Crystal’s decision to deny my child’s aging and simply refer to her as «13 months, 18 months, 94 months» old instead of the harsh reality of one, two or 10 years old.
What’s in a number anyway?
When you’re a mom, a whole, whole lot.