See Me, Mommy

In about a month, we'll celebrate Chancho's fourth birthday, a fact that I can't seem to wrap my mind around.
I don't know if it's because he's the baby of the family, or if it's because I'm with him all day every day, but when I look at him, this is what I see:



For the life of me, I can't see him as anything other than an adorable little baby with big brown eyes and chubby cheeks.

I have a dilemma. He's not a baby and he hasn't been a baby for some time. And lately he's been showing me emphatically that he will not be treated like one.

I still notice how cute his little tushie looks in his Lightning McQueen underwear. I kiss him on the head every single time he calls a Snickers bar a "Sneakers Baw." I smile and scoop him up when he gets frustrated. I pull him to my lap every time we're next to each other so I can smell his breath and feel his sweaty head on my shoulder.

But now he pulls away. He doesn't want to be noticed for how cute he looks in his Toy Story jammies. Or for adorable way he can't pronounce Bubby's real name. Or for the countless ways I dote on him each day.

Now he doesn't want to be seen as cute. He wants to be seen as a big boy.

"Look at my new cool trick, Mommy!" he says as he spins like a "tomato" on the swingset.

"Watch me jump higher!" he squeals as he bounces across our front yard.

"Did you hear me say all the ABCs, Mommy?" he asks as he sings the alphabet to me from his carseat (And by the way, it's completely adorable when he says "n-n-n-o-p" instead of "l-m-n-o-p.")

"I'll do it MYSELF!" he demands, allthetime.



He's not a baby. He's not even a toddler. He's a PRESCHOOLER.

I think I'm just trying to hold on because he's our last. We're in a whole different stage of life now - one without diapers and strollers and bubble baths, one where Bubby, Sissy and Chancho aren't dependant on me for all their needs.

I thought I'd be ready, that I'd relish this freedom and downtime, but for some reason, I'm a little sad. I miss the middle-of-the-night feedings and the oatmeal covered bibs and the  runny noses wiped on my clean shirt and the peanut butter smudged windows and the I-Can't-Figure-Out-Why-You're-Crying-So-I'll-Just-Hold-You-'til-You-Stop tears.

I miss it all so much.

And I'm wondering if I'm crazy? Does anyone else feel this way about their children growing up?
More importantly, exactly how much therapy will Chancho need as an adult if I continue to treat him like a one-year-old? I should probably start saving up now.