Yesterday I had a sneaky little attack on my emotions.
Recently Goober has been teething something fierce, mostly in his molar area. No breakthroughs, but having such hard teething in the back of his mouth has led to some false alarms of ear infection symptoms. Me being the hypochondriac that I am when it comes to my baby, I keep sending Hubby to the pediatrician with him. Yesterday I sent them off again and, once again, was told his ears are perfect, it’s just teething. Afterwards, Hubby was texting me the updates and also Goober’s stats, as they weighed and measured him. This is standard, no big deal, although he has finally hit 24lbs, bringing his weight percentiles up to the 50th% from the puny 25th% that he was at his birthday.
One final text I received read the following:
“By the way, Goober stood on the big boy scale to get weighed.”
That little line hit me like a ton of bricks. It’s just one of a million little milestones that he has and will pass in these first couple years that mark his evolution out of babyhood. For some reason though, this one caught me off guard. Sitting at my desk, my eyes welled up. I pictured my tiny baby, now not so tiny, standing up on a regular scale in the doctor’s office. That, in my mind, was the epitome of his transformation out of infancy and into childhood. He’s really no longer a baby, no matter how much I like to think of him as such.