I watched you just now, playing on the playground at the park, looking so determined to cross those monkey bars. You’ve gotten so tall, your face looking much more mature. The baby fat has been replaced with long and lean.
And it made me wonder…
When did you stop being my baby?

Was it when you stopped needing me to feed you, or when you started drinking from a “big boy” cup?
Was it when, after so many long months, you were finally potty trained?
Or maybe it was when you finally stopped coming downstairs to our bed at 2am for middle-of-the-night snuggles after a bad dream.
I wish I’d have realized the last time you did that was indeed the last time.
Was it when you started trying to take care of me when I was sick or feeling bad, bringing me medicine, cold packs, tissues…whatever you thought I might need?
Or perhaps it was when you didn’t need me to walk you into school or help you in the bathroom anymore.
It might have been when you got old enough to fix your own breakfast and watch cartoons instead of waking me up. Or when you could pour your own drink and get your own snacks.
Was it when you were old enough for us to have serious conversations about things like the solar system, the weather, or what things were like when I was a kid?
Was it when you started reading the books to me instead of the other way around?
Or when you started cleaning, helping with laundry, making your own bed (and doing it well)?
Or when you started helping daddy with projects?
Or when you got that first report card?
Or when the big boy teeth took over your face?
I don’t know.
I couldn’t tell the exact moment.
Because, truth be told, it still hasn’t actually happened.
Because no matter how old you grow…
How many responsibilities you take on…
How many inches you are taller than me…
How many adventures you have without me…
It will never happen.
You will always be my baby.
And where I am will always be your home.


