I was painfully reminded tonight by my brother that my tot is no longer a “baby”, but rather a “toddler” (aka, Big Boy). As much as it pains me to say it, HE’S RIGHT. Ugh. Those who know my brother know how I’ll regret typing that.
But it’s true. My tot is growing. FAST.
In the last few months he’s mastered simple sentences, brushing his teeth (kinda), the potty!!!!, and cleaning up after himself. He can put his pants on, snap his shoes, and choose his own PJ’s. He know’s what foods he wants for each meal, and will adamantly protest if you try to substitute smoked turkey for his beloved ham. He chooses which videos he wants to watch on Netflix by himself, can operate the DVD player, NOOK, and LeapPad. Fail. He know’s the difference between crayons, markers and colored pencils, so don’t you dare offer one for the other. He know’s he prefers British cartoons over their American counterparts (can’t wait to see how that translates in adulthood), and that Jeopardy is far more interesting than Wheel of Fortune (genius!). He can say his vowels, his numbers and his colors, but refuses to “sing” any sort of childish song (yes, even the ABC song). He can unload the dishwasher even when you didn’t ask him to, flush the toilet even when you didn’t ask him to, and unload the dryer even if you didn’t ask him to. Helpful.
Adorable onsies have been replaced by tiny toddler briefs. And though I’ve known it was coming for some time, yesterday’s trip into the big boy department of Target for socks made me kinda sad. Size 2T pants look far too big, but sadly fit. Tantrums occur closer together, and sane days are spreading further apart.
Yes, he IS a toddler. I’ll practice saying it in front of the mirror for good measure. But he’ll always be my baby…right?