My youngest turned seven last month. And he still has all of his baby teeth, is still a terrible eater, and has zero reservations about going to the doctor. One day he will kill me for telling you this, but I still carry him to bed every night and he has that same “spot blankie” and stuffed monkey from his crib days.
He is my seven-year-old infant.
It’s not that I do not want him to grow up; quite the contrary. I am excited about the days ahead when we will have three teenagers in our home, the youngest bringing up the rear and who will most certainly be the most adventurous one. I can see it now, with a quick toss of his glossy blonde hair, wink and a smile, he will take off as he hears my yells of “Be careful!,” “Not too fast!,” and “You’ll shoot your eye out!” echoing off the walls.
But yesterday, he just came home from the hospital. (to read more of this article, click (here) to finish over on Knoxville Moms Blog).