Baby number three is already 4 months. He’s flipping over both ways and giggling. He’s growling as he grabs at my face (it’s rumored he may be part zombie). He’s trying his best to sit up and be part of the family conversation.
My oldest is 8. She reads like a fifth-grader and is as sassy as the day is long. Nails are painted, hair is coiffed just so (today, it was pigtail buns and she’s obsessed with Princess Leia hair). I still remember bringing her home from the hospital unsure of how to be a mom.
And then there’s my middle little dude. He’s 2. Already, he’s counting to ten in Spanish and trying German. He loves the planets and has them memorized in order. He’s like a bulldozer in the house; and once I have something clean, he comes right behind me to mess it up again.
When you first become a parent, you get a bunch of advice about babies. You’re told things like, “Never wake a sleeping baby,” or “Always strap them to the changing table.” The one I didn’t listen to so well was, “They grow up so fast.” And now, my children are living proof that time refuses to stand still.
When Miss Sassy Pants was born, my aunt sent me a beautiful cross stitch that reminded me that all the trivial things I had to get done could wait. My baby? She wasn’t going to stay a baby for long. So, I should soak up every second of her baby-ness.
Finally, here with Flash, I’m listening to that advice. I do my best to stare at him and love on him and remember that in just another few short weeks, he’ll probably be crawling all over our house and won’t be such a tiny baby any more.