It's really starting to hit me that my baby is not much of a baby anymore. He'll be two in two months. I always make myself stop calling the youngest child "the baby" when he turns two. I don't want to be one of those parents who still calls her 25 year old "the baby," you know? It's harder with this one, because I know he's the last. Plus, he's not really talking yet, which makes him seem younger than he is. Ironically, the only word I can get him to say consistently is "baby."
I haven't cut his hair yet, either. He's got all these adorable little curls that I can't bring myself to cut off. He's still got that soft, smooth baby skin that feels so nice. But lately, that soft skin is covered with little bruises from all his big adventures, or sticky from whatever he's been eating. And really, who wants to cuddle a sticky toddler?
I'll be 36 tomorrow, and I can't help but wonder where the time's gone. Wasn't I just 16 yesterday? How does twenty years go by so fast? I'll blink, and my "baby" will be twenty-two. So you'll forgive me if I hold him a little more frequently in the next couple of months, if I cuddle and kiss him just to feel that soft skin against my face. I need to remember this.