Jack will be three years old next month.
Mostly, I know that's super amazingly awesome. He is a wonder these days, full of jokes and new words and demands and hugs and giggles and thoughtfulness. He's thoughtful, this boy.
In all honesty though, a little piece of me is scared and sad that he's turning three. It's too fast, world. You are moving far too fast. It's flying.
That's it, isn't it? The flying? The vertigo of the sands in the hourglass?
Oh, you've gotten so big! How times flies!I can't believe it's [insert month] already! This year is flying.
We've all heard it. Everyone says it. And now, I say it, too.
I don't miss the acid reflux. Or the blow outs. Or the sleep deprivation. Or the cost of formula and diapers for a little, wordless tyrant of our hearts who consumed those things like a boss.
Maybe I do, a little.
When I think about this age, I will remember the day that we went to the Central Market playground and had a smoothie. It was hot, and Jack didn't feel good. We went to the pediatrician and he clearly felt better. I decided against going home because there was time to play. Despite the gajillion things I *needed* to do at home, I *decided* not to let the day fly by. Nope. Not when there was time to play.
I hope you have time to play today.