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Observations on how old these kids are getting July 15, 2010

Posted by Erin F. Wasinger in Being a mama, The baby, Toddling it.

She started singing the ABCs — mostly correctly (L-M-N-O-P becomes “Applebees,” though we never eat there). Just out of the blue: “A-B-C-D … F-Geeeee,” she sang. One second she was stuffing blueberries into her mouth, the next her voice pierced through my heart with her confidence in her attempt.

And colors! She knows a few of them. “Alcie www-eeear boooo shirt. Mama wwww-eeear pritty dress,” she says when I shut the hair dryer off in the morning. “Mama www-eeear peenk shirt.”


And this one … this one sits in the Bumbo and laughs silently at the three of us eating our dinner around her. Her eyes lock onto Alice the second Violet registers Alice’s voice in her little ears. The pile of outgrown clothes that need to be put in the closet (whenever I get a second or 60 … so, in 2014) grows beside her dresser faster than I can emotionally handle never seeing these tiny, itsy clothes again (til that garage sale I’m daydreaming about).

I mean, her clothes have little smiling elephants and sunshines and polka dots. In a few short years she’ll be wanting to wear something insanely gag-tastic like Hannah Montana and I’m going to have to stop her mid-beg to point to the promises Dave and I made ourselves before having children: No Barney. No Thomas the Train. No Hannah Montana. No sing-alongs, no Boobah, no scantily clad pre-teens. No calling our 7-year-old a preteen. Op! Sorry, dear. Rules are rules. Find something with an elephant on it. I don’t care what the other fifth-graders are wearing, young lady. Don’t give me that loo — DON’T YOU ROLL YOUR EYES AT ME, YOUNG LADY.

I just don’t want to fight that fight too quickly; this is all happening too fast — I want to hold onto these smiling elephant shirts and incorrectly recited ABCs. This is what I was looking for: the warm and squishy, cuddly baby hugs and the “Mama? KISS!” demands.

I despise cliches and repeating lines from told-you-so conversations, but really: Fast. It’s too fast.

Now let’s not be unreasonable: the whining and those diapers — you know the ones I’m talking about, the kind that send the dog running in the opposite direction — drag that second hand around the clock with all the speed of a toddler getting ready when you wake up late (that’s deadly, painfully slow, if you’ve never had that special experience).

But most of the rest, I can’t even account for.



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