As I held his little two year old body in my arms, I couldn't help but think this could be the last time I am holding a two-year old of my own. In just nine short hours, he will be three.
He has mastered potty training in just five short days. He can dress himself. He can talk back in defiance and get away with it as only a three year old can because he is so damn cute.
There are so many things to celebrate about him turning three. Life in many ways is getting easier as he becomes more independent. (Harder in other ways as he has entered the stage of the terrible tantrums - though they still pale in comparison to those of his sister when she was three. Thank god!)
But I can't help but feel sad about what I might never have again. The decision to have another child is hard a one. I can't imagine having another child. But at the same time, I can't imagine never having another child. That this soon to be three year old, would be the last two year old I will ever have. That, is hard for me to accept. Despite the exhaustion that comes with caring for young children, is there really anything better than this? What else would I rather being doing? Sure, more sleep would be nice. More time alone with my husband would be good. But I'll tell ya, nothing beats this feeling of holding that little body, hearing them breathe, feeling their little finger tips grasp your arms as they flinch while falling off to sleep. Or the little face that looks up at you and says, "Kiss and Hug?", even if it is 4 AM.
Time will tell if another child is in our future. But for now, I don't care how old he gets, he'll always be my baby.