At 21 months old, my little boy is certainly not a baby anymore.
He can run and spin and climb just about anything. He’s a got a vocabulary that grows exponentially by the day. He brushes his teeth, and drinks from a real cup, and eats with a fork.
At the park, he sometimes walks off and never looks back, and I feel sure that if I didn’t chase him down, he’d just keep on walking as far as his little legs would take him.
But at bedtime, I sing him “Jesus Loves Me”, and his little head still rests perfectly right on my chest.
And later, when he wakes up crying from a bad dream or a toothache or one of his bears falling out of the crib, he still finds comfort in my hand on his tummy.
I know he won’t always be my baby, but I’ll treat him like he is just as long as he’ll let me.