I was pushing Simon in the stroller the other day, and I was stopped by two women who wanted to admire my sweetie. They marveled at his toes, at the way he was sucking his thumb at the roundness of his head… oh wait, that was me. Seriously – I’ve never had a kid with a head this round!
Anyways, then they told me to soak up every minute because before I know it, he will be 45, and he won’t need me anymore.
I spend a lot of time worrying that my next blink will be the one that launches us all forward to when my babies aren’t babies anymore. When I don’t have an audience in the bathroom, and they figure out that I can’t dance and that I don’t know everything (even though I do).
It never occurred to me to be afraid of them turning 45. I’m still stuck on 8. It sounds so old. They’ll all be potty-trained (dear Lord, please let them all be potty-trained by then.) They’ll be influenced by friends. Alice’s pacifier will be a thing of the past. No one will be pooping on my leg.
Well, maybe there will be a few good things about them turning 8.