Time flies

It dawned on me the other day that the Wee One is twenty-one months old. Twenty one. Nearly two.

When his brother was this age, I had just brought home a newborn.

I look at the Wee One now, and I can't seem to imagine the Big Boy ever being that ... well... wee.

It has happened - time has flown.

Just like everyone warned me it would.

So big.

In the morning when I pluck him from his crib, we talk:
"Good morning" I say.
"Good moah-nin" he replies - talking around his binky.
"Are you my baby one?" I tease, sticking my nose in his neck and tickling him.
"No!" he says, squirming.

Despite the binky,  blanky, and crazy crib hair - he really isn't a baby anymore.

I blinked, and here we are.

The dismantler at work.

And the Big Boy?

It's hard for me to write about how big he is. My heart starts to ache and my eyes sting.

Sappy Mama.

Lately he's been practicing social skills with me:
"Hi!" he says, "What's your name?"
"My name's Mama" I say (having been scolded previously for introducing myself with my real name), "What's your name?"
Suddenly he is shy, but he answers, then he runs off, satisfied.

Yesterday when I picked him up from the daycare at the gym he was playing with a few other boys who all knew his name.
Oh, there he goes.

Time, time, time.
Always marching on.