My last kid won’t let me pick him up.
(And one day, I won’t be able to even if I tried.)
My son won’t physically stop me from dialing into a work conference call.
He will let us get a good night’s sleep.
He will eat roasted chicken breast and not dinosaur chicken nuggets.
He will learn to use the potty. And wipe himself.
My third kid will talk in complete sentences without animal sounds in between every word.
He will run off to explore his world and I won’t instinctively panic.
He will realize not every color is “green.”
He will NOT tear the house apart looking for an imaginary dragon he dreamed about at naptime.
He will stop eating squeezie baby food.
He will think kale is delicious AND nutritious. And value both things equally.
He will get his own drink at Starbucks and stop beginning to share ours.
He will move from the crib that once belonged to his brother and sister to the toddler bed that once belonged to…his brother and sister. With a fresh coat of paint, of course.
He will stop using the plastic kiddie utensils for his Cheerios.
He will stop cuddling and snuggling and noseying.
One day he will grow up. And then the next day, a little bit more.
Those days will be bittersweet days.
More bitter than sweet.
And that’s OK.
That day, thankfully, is not today.