My very small child is a somewhat less small child now, and I’ve got to say, I’m a little melancholy about it. Not that I want to stunt his growth or anything. What? I totally don’t, and categorically deny any rumors to the contrary.
I don’t miss all-night wakeups, endless nursing sessions, teething, drooling, or spit-up. I don’t miss his frustration over not being able to walk – which, if you recall, he got over pretty damned early – or talk. I don’t miss having to lug the stroller with us on every outing (although, let me just say, if we’d gotten an Ergo sooner my life would have been SO MUCH EASIER OMG). I don’t miss poopsplosions or chewed-up books. And I really, really don’t miss being pregnant.
But my big kid (he’s three! Seriously. I would not kid about a thing like that) is pretty cool, too. He likes Doctors Who and Horrible . He enjoys pirate songs on YouTube. He’ll say “That’s pretty weird” when confronted with things like Hamster on a Piano. He thinks birthdays are the greatest thing ever, with Christmas a close second. He won’t get out of bed in the morning until we “Guggle some more!” And he’s, you know, crazy handsome.
A friend on Facebook said “You know, you two really have a responsibility to the world to have another child. I mean he is just so cute.” She’s right. He really is.
Happy (belated) birthday, kid.