And so it goes: The cute little buggers grow up. You bring them home all swaddled tight in a crappy little hospital blanket that you will never, ever throw away and three minutes later, their sitting on the big potty. Ninety seconds after that, they need prom dates and braces and a good dermatologist. And of course, that's the blessing and the stuff of tear-warped scrapbooks.
In the whir of holidays and schedules and pick-ups and drop-offs and the fast-forward of our daily living to take pause and just look at these children, sprung up out of round bellies and thigh rolls, coos from the crib and little parties at all hours of the morning. Even as we celebrate their triumphs and successes, even as we toss the training wheels and cheer for the end of the binky dependency, will we always have a little lust for the babies they are, or at least, once were?
These mamas are caught up in the ch-ch-ch-changes:
Catherine from Her Bad Mother's watching her little bird take flight.
Susan from Friday Playdate's sure someone's replaced her baby with a giggle-happy curiousity-stricken kid.
Our own CityMama's watching her girls
grow up on the beaches of Hawaii (and making my own concrete back"yard" seem even sadder).
RockstarMommy's baby hasn't become a toddler, he's become a terrorist who is plotting to kill her.
And Magpie Musing's already prepping for the Hillary Duff experience.
(Oh, and this makes me want to dig out Where Did the Baby Go? just for the occasion).
