In the last couple of weeks my baby girl {who was once crawling around these hardwood floors and exploring every nook and cranny of this house} is now reaching yet another pivotal milestone; she is giving up the high chair.
It started with some whining when I placed her in the chair to the full on groan which included what I like to call the ‘snake move’ where she slithers and slides making it extremely difficult for me to get her in the chair. Then she pulls the old ‘all out stretch’ by tightening up her entire body including her legs where she completely stiffens herself so hard that I am unable to safely place her in the high chair.
It’s officially over.
And the reality is she’s growing up faster than I could have imagined and she resembles a little girl more than ever now. My baby is quickly disappearing…she has really developed into a beautiful little toddler and even through this process I have to admit, I am done.
No more children.
I’ve known that revelation since the day I gave birth to her but somehow it’s becoming increasingly more concrete or evident.
Or final.
I won’t have a baby to hold anymore.
I won’t have a baby that gives me that first smile or giggle.
I won’t have a baby to teach me something new.
I won’t have a baby. Anymore. Ever.
Because I know that I am done.
Since my daughter has made this jump from baby to toddlerhood in what feels like a matter of days has seemingly made my “I am done” scenario feel so very real.
I am a mother who comes from the camp that firmly believes a woman just knows when she’s done.
But, in this moment…right here, right now – why does it have to feel so final?
