“I’m not a baby anymore.”
He reminds me of this often.
He’s not wrong. He’s definitely not a baby anymore.
We traded in the infant seat.
We took down the baby gates.
We donated baby clothes and wondered into the big boy section at target.
There are no more high chairs around my kitchen table.
There’s no more need for the infant bath tub.
Those baby food spoons are long gone.
As much as he reminds me he’s not a baby, that he’s actually a big boy now, he will always be my baby. Even though he’s asserting his independence more and more, and minimizing his need for me. Even though he no longer needs to hold my hand to keep him from falling, and sometimes, he’s even embarrassed to do so, he will always be my baby.
He will be my baby when he packs up his room and moves away to college. He will be my baby when he walks down the aisle and has a baby of his own.
No amount of years, no life change can make him be anything other than my baby in my eyes.
He will always be a baby to me.
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