Before I Know It, He'll Be 18 Right?

When I tell people that Nate is 16 months old, I often have people actually tell me that it is their favorite age. I usually politely smile and respond with some sort of vague pleasantry, but inwardly I'm thinking WHAT THE EFFING CRAP?!  Either people routinely will tell you whatever age your child is is their favorite just to be nice, or most everyone has pushed their memories of their own children as toddlers deep, deep down to some scary dark place that is completely unreachable except through electroshock therapy.

All I know is that I increasingly find myself looking at my budding toddler and wistfully recalling the good old days of babyhood. Remember when you would sleep for hours every day Nate? Remember when you couldn't walk or even crawl, and instead happily sat  playing with an actual baby toy for 45 minutes at a time? Remember how it was before you developed gross motor skills? It was awesome.

This however, is not awesome.


Tearing toilet paper into little tiny pieces does not make for a happy mom.










Do you know what is even less awesome? Doing this just a few hours later:


Yes, that's toilet water all over the floor (and down the hall). I swear I had closed the bathroom door earlier this morning. Sam must have used the potty before school, which would mean, you guessed it, that's pee water. So. Flipping. Awesome.

And who was the kid who threw a hysterical tantrum at Albertsons later this afternoon because I wouldn't buy him a stuffed animal?

And who thinks it's a challenge to try to get out of his high chair now at each meal?

And who screams and arches his back every time he gets puts in his car seat?

And who walked over and hit Sam on the top of his head with a heavy plastic toy today?

(OK, actually that was pretty funny. )

And who is my only child sleeping through the night in his own bed still?

For that reason alone, I love you. Just stay out of the toilet.