To the older children's friends he is simply "Baby Oliver," as he's usually the littlest to tag along on their big adventures. But last week Ollie went on a play date with his own (only-slightly-older) group of friends, and I realized that my baby is nowhere near a baby anymore. HE'S DOING THIS THING. He's rocking toddlerhood, Ollie style.
Lately my boy is putting words together (hooray!), picking out his own clothes, making clever connections, walking up stairs, sitting on potties, requesting books by name, building "tastles" that stay up long enough for Daddy to see, helping me cook, eating all the carrots, showing off that sense of humor we all adore (not to mention the dance moves!), cranking up our CD player, channeling his inner athlete, kissing my cheek at nap time, whispering "wuv you, too," taking direction, learning to share toys, sleeping through the night, getting less frustrated when things don't go as planned, declaring more "I do" independence. It's a brave new world, 27 months. Rock on.
So. My two year old is not a baby anymore. Accepting it makes me equally nostalgic for what was (and may never be again) and excited for what is still. I know from experience that there is even more loveliness on the horizon, such as falling asleep on his own, walking down stairs safely, endless conversation, firsts, knowing when a risk outweighs a benefit. All good things.