Three Years Old and Getting his Own Milk.

I was thinking this morning how much I would like it when my kids could get their own cereal or make their own lunches.

No more: “Mommy, I hungee”. Instead, they could just saunter on into the kitchen and make what they needed. With the right amount of milk. In the right colored bowl. With the spoon of their choice. (“Not that one, THAT one!!!!”) No fuss, no haggling, everyone would be happy.

But then I realized what that would mean. If they could get their own cereal or reach for the bread, it meant they were taller. If they could get the milk out of the frig door with no spills threatening, it meant they were stronger. If they could use a sharp knife to cut their sandwiches, it would mean they were old enough to actually use a knife.

If they were that tall, that strong, THAT old enough, they could probably use the phone, call a friend and disappear off into the neighborhood on a skateboard (he BETTER be wearing a helmet). And then (maybe, hopefully, please God) return home that evening on a wing and a prayer with no broken bones, safe and sound, back under my roof again.

Or they might even be old enough to grab the car keys and say they were just driving over to Ryan’s house to check out his new video game. Driving. Out into the world. My children.

Um no.

My youngest is turning three years old  today. Did you hear the key phrase there? My youngest is now three years old. I don’t have any babies in my home anymore. My youngest actually told me not to forget the sunscreen on the way to the pool this morning. *Blink* He is a far far cry from the wee baby I was clutching to my chest in a haze of Percocet three years ago today.

And this is a critical milestone year. Soon, he will be out of diapers. Soon, he won’t be needing naps. Soon, (in fact, it should have already happened) he will be in a big boy bed. Soon, he will be going to preschool.

Me. A mother of two napless, school going children with clean pants. I just want to weep. When was I ever old enough to have babies – I mean – boys who could both wipes their own asses?

Already, they do attempt to wrestle the milk out of the frig door and heft it over to the counter, heave it up and precariously push it on to safe ground while I sprint in there (always in slow motion it seems), repressing a yell: “OHMYGOD be careful! That milk will spill! It’s too heavy for you, baby!”

Annoyed stare. “No, no mommy. I DO it.”

My baby. *sigh* No. My big boy. Just trying to get his own milk. Exactly like I had been wishing for a half hour earlier.

My sweet little three year old. Happy birthday today. To me, you still look exactly like the baby you were three years ago. Except, now you walk and remind me about sunscreen and dump mounds of cereal into your own bowl and pee in the potty. Happy birthday. I am so very proud of you.

…What’s that? You’re thirsty? Ok. No, I’LL get the milk. I swear you do still need me for that.