He talks so fluently now.
Full sentences. Clear thoughts. Even opinions.
The same boy who once pointed and babbled now negotiates bedtime like a lawyer.
“Five more minutes, Daddy. Promise, super duper last one.”
And somehow, he always wins.
The other night, he said, “Daddy, it's my turn. I can do it myself.”
Just like that.
No hesitation. No need for help.
I smiled. Then paused. Because beneath that pride was a tiny crack in my heart.
One day you’re in love with a baby.
Next, you’re talking to a little person with his own words, humor, and world.
And while I’m amazed by how fast he’s learning, a part of me wants to slow it all down.
To freeze the way he still reaches for my hand when we cross the street.
To hear the way he still mispronounces “carbonara” and calls it “cargobanara.”
To keep him in that sweet in-between. Old enough to talk, but young enough to need me.
But that’s the deal, isn’t it?
We raise them so they can eventually run ahead.
Even if every step forward is one more goodbye to the version of them we first fell in love with.
So I listen to his stories.
Record his voice.
Take too many photos.
Love them loudly. Capture them often. The rest can wait.