The other day, I found myself watching my 3-year-old son peacefully napping. He looked like an angel, curled up on his side with the soft summer light streaming through the blinds. Observing my children while they sleep has always been a cherished pastime of mine. It’s a time when they appear like babies, and I can truly take in their features without the distractions of their energetic antics during the day.
As I gazed at my little boy, I noticed the remnants of his babyhood still clinging to him—his delicate features and tiny fists tightly clenched in slumber. But there were unmistakable signs of growth; his legs were long and tan, devoid of any baby fat. His face seemed to have elongated, carrying a seriousness that hinted at deeper thoughts than I had previously recognized.
With summer slipping away, the reality hit me: my youngest child, my last baby, is about to turn 4. The realization that his baby days are quickly fading overwhelmed me with emotion.
Turning four is a different experience compared to the earlier years. Ages 1, 2, and 3 are filled with the essence of toddlerhood—diapers, adorable mispronunciations, and moments of needing naps to stave off meltdowns. They are the years of sippy cups, finger foods, and carrying snacks everywhere, along with the necessity of having wipes and a change of clothes at the ready.
At age four, children still need to be carried, but they can also manage a decent walk. They crave cuddles but ask for them less frequently. They still fit in your lap, albeit with longer limbs protruding awkwardly. Their hair grows thicker, and you often have to sift through it to find those soft, baby-like strands that remain.
While four-year-olds still throw their fair share of tantrums—now with a sprinkle of sass—they also grasp more than you might expect. They understand jokes and can often make it through the day without needing a nap.
As the mother of my youngest child, I find myself struggling with this milestone. I wish I could slow down time, but I know that it’s futile. The only consolation is that I have an older child who, at 9, will remind me that my youngest will still feel little for a while longer. Yet, I am acutely aware of how quickly time passes, especially knowing he, too, will soon be 9.
So, while I still can, I’ll indulge in nurturing my little one. If he prefers not to walk the three blocks to pre-K, I will gladly carry him. If a minor scrape leads to dramatic tears, I’ll scoop him up and shower him with affection, believing that my kisses can heal his pain.
To my sweet, slumbering son: Please, let’s find a way to pause your growing up. If you must continue this journey, do so gently and slowly for your emotional mom.