I know six people due the first week of December. As I ordered too many pairs of ruffle-bottom bloomers and tuxedo onesies for those new babes making their way into the world, my ovaries eased up into my brain and turned my laser-sharp online shopping focus to those oxytocin-filled moments of kissing chubbers baby cheeks and a sweaty newborn head pressed against the chest and the giggles over any little thing. Oh, for the love of all things fertile, THE GIGGLES.
I can’t wait to hold those babies and to celebrate the place they make in some very loving families. And I haven’t yet given up on the idea, the faint and fabulous and deliriously amnesic idea, of having another baby myself. But as soon as my ovaries wore out and returned to their rightful place, I remembered how great I have it as a mother of an eight-year old.
I’m not one of those moms who loved any particular phase or rued a certain stage. Even in the challenges, in the PullUps and stiff-as-a-board/dead-body-limp tantrums in Target aisles and years of operating in sleep deficit, I was in love with some part of that time in my son’s life.
Sometimes I miss the olden days of singing a screaming infant to sleep for three hours or mastitis-throbbing boobs or lispy preschool incessant questioning. Of course. Those were very good times. But in my insistence on being present for each stage, I’ve also found some really good replacements for those moments and baby-ways I occasionally long for.
Stage 8 is not perfect. There are “OhmahgawMOMMMMM”s and door slamming and times I repeat a request to place dirty chonies in the laundry basket 67 times. There are bigger kid problems of bullying and boredom and bad breath and emerging toe hair. There are glimpses of tweendom and teendom and declaring a double major in French and Woven Arts at a $58,000 a year college. No matter. I am good. We are good. And this kid? He’s both parts crazy-amazing.
Here are a few reasons why big kids rule (for now).
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