For the past 11 years, we've had a baby or toddler in the house. We've changed thousands of diapers and woken up countless times for mid-night feedings. Not to mention all the other duties, stresses, responsibilities, and joys that come with a baby.
I looked out the front door on Wednesday morning, and saw this:
Grant was headed down the walkway to jump into the car for his ride to school. Somehow, the bald little baby who was born just yesterday (it seems) turned into a boy. A real boy.
A boy who dresses himself for school.
A boy who rides the school bus on field trips.
A boy who goes potty unassisted.
A boy who feeds himself.
A boy who entertains himself and can communicate his needs and carry on an entertaining and attentive conversation.
A boy who sleeps through the night. (Most of the time)
A boy who now only rarely wants to be held. And almost never wants kisses.
It is a strange feeling to know that the baby stage of our family is officially over. It makes me feel old. Like somehow not having a baby anymore has aged me into a middle-age person instead of a young mom. I'm not sure how I feel about that.
While I know that at some point, everyone has to be done having babies, there's a part of me that aches to go through it all over again. I miss the newness of life, so perfectly perfect and full of wonder. I miss being so solely needed and being the one responsible for the sustaining of life of a tiny, helpless being.
But then, just when I consider begging and pleading Steve to try for one more, that same four year old, who at times is so grown up, reverts to his near-forgotten baby ways, and throws a fit like this:
And in that moment, I am content to be moving on to the next stage of life.