You were the baby.
Our only, for a time.
Until you weren’t.
Until another came along.
And then, just like that, you were big.
The baby you once were now long gone.
And I was shocked.
Because everyone had told me, but I never believed them.
They told me that all of a sudden you’d seem so huge.
That I might hold you funny, forgetting your neck didn’t need supporting.
That I’d likely be amazed by all the things you were capable of doing.
That I would look at you, tears in my eyes, wondering where in the world my baby had gone.
But they forgot to tell me.
They forgot to tell me that you would always be my baby.
That despite the fact that you seemed so big, you were really still so little.
That even though—in a moment’s time—you became the oldest, you weren’t quite ready to have so much expected of you.
That another baby didn’t make you any less of a baby.
That you still needed more time as my baby, too.
So tonight, I’ll hold you close.
I’ll breathe you in.
I’ll kiss your cheeks and thank God for you, my first.
And I’ll remind myself once more that you’ll never, ever be too old to be my baby.
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