You know you’re in denial when you finally acknowledge that you failed to mention your baby’s birthday.
It was two months ago.
My little G is fourteen months old and Harrison (8) had the gall to try to teach her to stand on her own today. Step away from the baby, son.
Georgia is the world’s biggest baby and I am perfectly fine with that. She still wants to be spoon fed whenever possible, prefers my hip to any other mode of travel, sleeps like a baby and wants me to hold her all. Day. Long. I kind of love it.
And it is no business of anyone’s (Harrison, I’m talking to you) to step in and force that poor little infant to take up her bed and walk already. She’s just a baby, people, can’t we accept it and leave her alone? A little coddling never hurt most 40-year-olds.
I’m caught in the crossfire of emotions here. On the one hand, every time I give a piece of babyhood to the thrift store I can’t help feeling like an enormous weight has finally been lifted from my storage room. I want to yell to everyone within spit-up range, “Guess what I don’t have to keep anymore?” No more Baby Bjorn, changing pad, nursing paraphenalia, or slightly stained onesies. Every week I add to my pile of Crap I Don’t Have To Keep, and I’m routinely emptying Baby Bins for the last time.
But there are moments when I would like to freeze my little Gigi and keep her this size forever. (There are also moments when I wish she was five and didn’t come equipped with diapers and curiosity in general.)
We are nearing the end of this and I can feel it. As much as I try to pretend it isn’t so, the girl is going to step out one day and start walking and it’s all downhill big girl motion from there. Yes, I will have to potty train her. Yes, she will learn how to throw a tantrum.
Ah, baby girl, must you? Et tu, Brute?
She has my mother's eyes...
