Tomorrow, my very big boy is moving to the toddler room at school. This is a big deal; he’s moving early, because he’s thisclose to walking, and he’s no longer one of the “babies.” Am I proud? Unbelievably. But my initial response when his teacher told me about the move two weeks ago was a total sob fest. This is normal, right?
Last week, while shopping online for an Easter outfit, I came across some of those cute onesie and pants combos with little bunnies on the butt, and again, the tears began. I realized that my big boy would not be wearing pants with anything on the butt ever again. No footballs, no lions, no crabs, no Santas. He’s no longer a onesie-wearing baby; he’s on the brink of toddlerhood.
I have found that, again, this is something our birthing coach failed to include in our eight week class: YOU WILL CRY ABOUT EVERYTHING. Every. Single. Thing.
Kid eats a Cheerio for the first time? Tears. Takes two steps? Weeping. Learns to wave bye bye? Hello, hysterics. Not a single milestone has arrived with a dry eye for me. Each day, I feel myself identifying more and more with the women on Lifetime and WE.
Where did my teeny, tiny, itty bitty baby go? Over ten months have flown by since his arrival, and I just can’t find enough hours in the day to play with him, dance with him, teach him how to eat like a big boy, or stare at him while he sleeps (not as creepy as it sounds).
And so, I cry. Not in front of Miles (often), but cry. I realize on a daily basis what a gut-wrenching job parenthood can be. My tiny baby is growing up quickly, and I am not prepared for this. Totally normal, right?
If I could turn back time,