A terrible children’s book

I was watching this video today at work and this woman was reading a book to her kids about all the last things they’ll experience as a parent and child as their little one gets bigger – the last time the parent will have to feed them. To brush their hair for them. The last time they carry the kid in their arms.   And so on and so forth, with many more utterly heartbreaking examples of the small things that will haunt parents as their once little babies grow bigger and bigger before their very eyes.

I don’t know who wrote this book, but I hate them. If you are reading this, and you wrote that book, yes, I hate you. And I’m not even sorry.

My child is the joy of my life. My husband and I appreciate him so much – and we pat ourselves on the back for how much we appreciate him and have no regrets. We appreciate the way little T walks, how he copies what he sees adults do and how he points to the bear on his wall and his little butt and how he runs to us or says “mama” by the door when I’m coming home and how he points to the moon in the sky and a gazillion other amazing things his baby brain tells his baby body to do that are minor miracles that I’ve already forgotten.

I never understood when people said, “it goes so fast.” For the first 6 months of his life, I frequently commented that it felt like he was around for 5 years. That time was going so slow. My perspective was different. I was living between 18-22 hours of every single day, with a baby attached to my body. I wasn’t on adult time. Eating lunch seemed like an impossible feat.   I was at the mercy of a sick twisted (adorable!!!!) dictator and my sentence was ticking away slowly.
Then, a shift occurred. I went back to my work, to the adult world, to regular normaltown time. Time flies. My baby boy is quickly becoming a big boy. A big, adorable, sweet, smart boy.  A boy who kidnapped my helpless, innocent little baby and hid him away forever.

Screw you lady for reminding me that he’s just going to keep growing. That time will continue to march on. That my toddler really will quickly grow up and grow taller than me and really get to a point where I can’t pick him up.

Right now, I want to hold him in my arms and read nursery rhymes to him and watch him learn to eat yogurt and speak nonsense sentences, thank you very much.   Stop reminding me of the inevitable future. Like my little boy, I want to live in the moment.

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