Today when I went to put Maisey down for a nap I knew that she was tired enough from the night before that if I gave her a minute, she would fall asleep in my arms. And you'd have to be a fool to pass that up. It may have been the fact that it was the first day I put all her hair up in piggies, signifying the end of baby-ness. Or the fact that she now fits in the brown Etnies and the pink Converse. There was the physical evidence of the day queuing my brain that her baby days are coming to a close, yet the fact that I could still rock her to sleep- like she's somewhere in between baby and child and the transformation makes me feel crazy inside. I LOVE this age when they soak up everything like sponges, and then return it to you in squeaky little voices with their own dialect and body language. I've admitted before that this age is my real incentive for wanting more babies. If I don't go through the whole ordeal again I'll never get another 18 month old and I don't know if I can handle that. But recognizing that her baby days are over is just not something I'm ready to do. How terribly fast it goes. It terrifies me. Really and truly. Please don't let my babies grow up. I don't think my body can crank out many more and if I don't have moments like today, where I just hold chubby bodies and stroke messy pigtails I swear a part of me will die.
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