In my mind, Ryan is about 4-5 months old. Maaaaybe six months, at the most.
When I think about picking him up from daycare, I think of him lounging in a bouncy seat. I certainly don’t think about him cruising across the room or pulling himself up to a standing position (YES, HE DID THAT THIS WEEK, HOLY CRAP.)
I think about him drinking from bottles, not sippy cups. I think about him babbling incoherently, not saying “Dada” and looking Mike straight in the eyes.
I picture him in my mind just like this:
When did this happen? Was there a moment when I was busy – washing dishes, perhaps, or watching Real Housewives (I’m equally likely to be doing either activity at any given moment) – when he thought to himself, “Eh, I’m over being a baby. Think I’ll move up to the Toddler Ranks now while no one is paying attention.”
How dare he grow up.