Heading to work, I stepped into my son’s room to turn off the light. What I saw moved me to tears. Without mentioning it, my husband had moved Paxton’s toddler bed so he could begin setting up his “big boy” bed. I knew it was coming, but I didn’t know it was coming today. I didn’t know that last night was his last night snoring under his Ninja-turtle sheets. I didn’t know that last night was his last night in his crib-turned toddler bed. I just didn’t know.
For my husband, this change is welcome. He loves my son’s growing independence as well as the fact that the “baby clutter” is gradually on its way out. For me, this change is hard. Since we are done having kids, I find myself sentimental about everything. How can my baby boy be growing up?
All of this causes me to reflect. As much as I want to, I can’t slow down the ever-ticking clock. Whether I like it or not, my kids are getting older each day, and so am I. (This fact isn’t as disconcerting to me for some reason: a few new wrinkles is trivial compared with independent potty trips and the like)
Usually, when I write a blog post, I try to come up with some sort of didactic lesson. I don’t really have one today, except the ever-cheesy reminder to cherish the time with my kids. Because even though some one-hour park trips seem eternal, I blinked and his toddlerhood ended. And here I am, typing this article as my husband sets up his big bed.
Next time I am struggling with a particularly hard parenting moment, I will remember this one, and I will remind myself that sometimes things seem challenging, and sometimes, you walk in to see your son’s toddler bed for the last time.
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