My child speaks in full sentences now.
Clear thoughts.
Strong opinions.
Confident negotiations.
The same little one who once pointed and babbled
now bargains for bedtime like a seasoned 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 the pride
was the smallest crack in my heart.
One day, you are cradling a baby.
The next, you are having conversations
with a little person
who has humor, preferences, and a growing world of his own.
I am amazed at how quickly he is learning.
And yet 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 replay the way he says “carbonara”
as “cargobanara.”
To hold on to this sweet in-between.
Old enough to talk.
Young enough to need me.
But that is the deal, isn’t it?
We raise them
so they can eventually run ahead.
Even if every step forward
is a quiet goodbye
to the version of them
we first fell in love with.
So I listen closely to his stories.
Record his voice.
Take too many photos.
Love him loudly.
Capture him often.
The rest can wait.