C is 22 months old now. I insist on continuing to refer to her as
"my baby," or "my one year old" because I am hesitant to let go of her
infancy, which is coming to an end. Yes, two year olds (and even three
and four year olds) are still babies in many ways, but they are not infants.
I know my issue with admitting that she's growing beyond true babyhood
comes from the fact that she's likely to be my last. We haven't
entirely abandoned the idea of managing to produce another offspring,
but given my recent obstetrical history, combined with my age (41), as
well as how hard I am working at my job
these days, that's looking less likely as time goes by. And I have some
major regrets about that; I would really like to have another baby. But
biology + economy make for a pretty powerful double whammy.
So
yes, I cling to the vestiges of C's infancy. Having said that, however,
I really do love, love, love toddlers and preschoolers. It's a favorite
childhood stage of mine. I adore their fat, juicy, half-baby/half-kid
bodies, and the ridiculous-yet-profound things they say. I am awed by
their unbridled enthusiasm and confidence, and I revel in the way they
unabashedly believe in things like fairies, Frances the talking badger,
and Elmo. We all see more and more of that with C every day. She's our
household comedy act, keeping her older siblings in frequent stitches
with her absurd utterances. And she talks A LOT. She's not nearly as
outgoing as her same-age cousin, NC, who really should have her own variety show. But with people she knows, Miss C is a chatterbox extraordinaire.
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