Danny just asked me if he could turn on the fireplace. Before you call DCFS or 911, you should know that we have a glass-encased gas fireplace that turns on by a simple flick of a light switch. I assure you, he cannot harm himself. So, I let him. And I thanked him for asking me first, instead of just doing it. And then I got all teary.
I suspect the next few days are going to be an emotional roller-coaster for us both. Poor Tim, and Clare. Danny is my baby, and with every step he takes toward growing up I simultaneously delight in his accomplishments and bemoan the ever-increasing distance between him and infancy. I hate the currently cluttered state of his bedroom, but I also can't bear to think about the day when we disassemble the crib and stow it away in the basement. I truly, desperately want him to learn to use a toilet. Yet I suddenly feel very attached to that sweet baby powder smell of a package of diapers. Wow, am I head case or what?
I remember shedding a few tears when Clare graduated to underwear and I didn't get to smell brand-new diapers anymore. A few weeks later I discovered I was pregnant with Danny, so I sort of figured it was a hormonal response. Maybe not. I'm not an overly sentimental mother, but evidently there is something about this particular milestone that strikes me to the core. Especially with Danny, because he's my baby. Except he's not really a baby anymore. It would take a pretty cold-hearted person not to get a bit weepy over that fact, right?
Thank heavens they still make footy pajamas in my kids' sizes. You can't be completely grown up when you're wearing those. (Well, I guess you can, but those people are kind of weird. And I definitely don't want weirdos.)