Today you are forty six months old.

This month I must have lost my mind. We were snuggling in bed, before bed one night, and I can still wrap my whole body around yours. I can still tuck you all in, swallowing up your ever-lengthening limbs with my own, but just barely.

This month I showered with you and your sister, separately, while we were traveling, and that's when it became painfully clear how different you are from your sister, in age, at least. Your sister, now a toddler, is a big chunk of baby, one I can press my fingers into, and they just about disappear, surrounded by so much chub. But you, you are firm and strong. Lean and bony. Elbow-y. Firm. It's like, you're, a person? You are a tiny PERSON.

So I had you all wrapped up and I actually asked if you could just stay three years old forever. I said that. Outloud. It just sounded better than you being twenty three. Somehow. Maybe it's the unknown. Or the pains we'll go through to there. But for all its drawbacks, three is pretty sweet, too.

You were a bit confused, but you reassured me that you would always be my baby.

Happy Forty Sixth Monthday.