He's my baby, and I can't seem to give that up. I still rock him every night. I still snuggle with him every chance I get. I still smooch him up and down and in between because he has the softest skin ever (except his skinny little legs, which have a touch of eczema). His eyes brighten up my day. If he cries, I cry. When he does throw a fit (rare), I tend to not be able to control my giggle because it is just so darn cute, and honestly, not very convincing. He's wee. Just a sinew of muscle, no meat on those bones. My little peanut. And that keeps him small in my heart as well. He just doesn't seem 28 months of age. He is still so darn small to me. I'm not ready to give that up yet. He is my last baby. And I guess I'm holding onto it. Oh sure, he's progressing as a normal 2 year old would. He's doing his ABC's and can count to 12 and knows all his colors. He loves reading books and playing Batman, just like his big brother. He wants to be just like his big brother. He still loves to color and play with stickers and play-doh. He's my quiet, contemplative, artistic child. But his laugh truly could bring about world peace if we all just stopped and listened to it. Or at the very least bring on a whole bunch of smiles.
My baby boy. Baby. Boy. Yeah, not so much. But in my heart, my baby boy he will always be.