We hardly knew what to do with ourselves when last fall gave way to grey, and the coldest winter in decades was upon us. It was entirely uninspiring…

Sometime in the dreariness of winter I realized the baby toddling behind wasn’t such a baby anymore. Eliza spent entire afternoons on all fours- meowing, purring, and pretending to lap milk. My little savage scaled the couch, overcame the bar in her quest for anything-on-the-counter, and unflinchingly declared the toilet her personal toy.  Every turn to find her atop some high place made my heart fold in half. Then just before the cold snapped truly cold, I looked up from pulling weeds to find her conquering the upward slope of the slide!  Yikes!

As the last pieces of her babyhood slipped away, I relished my freedom, and cursed time. For the first time in 3 yrs my body belonged solely to me, but as my ‘Liza toddled less and ran more, I missed that tiny baby born on my bed.  I blogged about the irony.

There were no mixed feelings about my middle child.  No, every hour he grew older I suppressed a sob. All winter (and spring and this summer) he pretended to fall down with loud grunts and dramatic poses.  He called out, “You okay, Mommy? Okay?” if I were out of sight for any length of time.  He put puzzles together like nobody’s business, and his dancing was (still is) the best entertainment I ever experienced- that boy loves him some “Thriller,” a bit of Beatles, a touch of U2, and to my delight, a Dixie Chicks song or two.

Tradition prevailed in February when we hung signs for Matt who got even older, and our Levi who turned 3 against my wishes.