Suddenly he has teeth, he’s pushing himself up to sitting and he’s desperately trying to crawl. As he’s finally growing and gaining healthfully, I find myself torn because I want him not to grow so fast. This last baby of mine.


I wish he would hurry up and grow, leaving behind the era of feigned helplessness and frustrating drama. I know some of it is personality, but I’m eager for an age where there is a little more logic at his disposal. Where every day isn’t damage control and lessons about personal space can be more easily taught. (He stands over my should as I type trying to reach over me to spell his name on the keyboard.) But I know that somehow, when he’s moved beyond this trying stage, that there will be things I miss. Perhaps not many, but some. His charm, his generous compliments (though I won’t miss the equally plentiful insults). My wonder at his sudden ability to read, as if from nowhere.


Seven approaches at high speed and I realize that the teenage years are less than halfway here. Her will is as strong as iron, but she is slowly developing some empathy for others (though not usually for her younger brother). She has strong opinions and struggles with taking correction. She slowly navigates the world of reading and I resist the urge to rush her forward. I keep thinking how much easier things will be when she can read, and do most things for herself. But I know she won’t always want to sit beside me and hold my hand.



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