My Baby Grew Up Too Fast: How To Adjust To Big Kid Milestones As A Parent
This morning, I turned off Jax’s nightlight and pulled back his comforter to wake him for his third week of pre-K. Like I do most mornings, I bent down to scoop his sleepy, warm body into my arms for the walk to the kitchen—something I’ve done since he was a newborn. Before my hands could get under his armpits, he mumbled into his pillow, “Mom, I can walk by myself,” and rolled away from me. I stood there for a beat, my hands still half outstretched, staring at the back of his head where his hair has gotten thick and shaggy, no longer the soft fuzz he had as a toddler. The dinosaur decal I put on his wall when we painted the room before he was born is peeling at the bottom edge, where he’s picked at it for four years. The hamper in the corner has three pairs of 12-18 month sneakers that I keep forgetting to pull out and donate, the soles still barely worn.
A month ago, he would have scrambled right into my arms. A month ago, he still called grilled cheese “gilled cheese” and held up his hands to me for help opening every single snack pack. Last week, he opened his own apple sauce pouch, zipped his own jacket, and told me he didn’t need my hand to cross the street anymore. He didn’t say it mean, just matter-of-fact, like it was something he’d known how to do forever. When did that happen? I still had a mental note to buy more size 3 diapers, and he’s been potty trained for three months.
I’ve seen a hundred posts online from parents saying the same thing—how time flies, how your baby grows up before you know it. Most of them end with some line about savoring every moment, but that never feels helpful to me. What I didn’t see anyone talk about, until I talked to my kid’s developmental specialist friend last month, is that when we’re stuck thinking about our kid as the baby they were, we can miss the small cues they’re giving us that they’re ready to do more on their own. She told me that most 3 to 5 year olds are ready to try way more tasks than we let them, not because we’re careless, but because doing it ourselves is faster, and it’s easier to just keep doing what we’ve always done. It’s hard to shift gears when you still see the tiny baby that needed you for everything every time you look at them.
After that morning with Jax, I started testing small changes, nothing big or dramatic. First, I added two extra minutes to our morning routine. That’s it, just two minutes. That’s enough time for him to fumble with his jacket zipper twice before he gets it, instead of me stepping in to do it for him before he’s even tried. Second, I started asking instead of assuming. Instead of just picking him up when we’re walking to the car, I say “Do you want a ride, or do you want to walk on your own?” Instead of pouring his milk for him every morning, I set the carton on the edge of the counter where he can reach it and ask if he wants to do it himself.
It’s not always smooth. Last week he spilled half a jug of milk all over the floor, and I had to stop myself from grabbing the carton out of his hand and saying never mind. I just got a paper towel, wiped it up, and said “Let’s try again slow, okay?” He got it the second time, and he stood there grinning like he’d just done something huge.
I also thought I had to pack up all his baby things all at once, because that’s what you do when your kid grows up. But Jax wasn’t ready for that, and honestly, neither was I. Instead of clearing out the whole closet in one weekend, we went through it together for 15 minutes after nap on a Saturday. We picked one tiny onesie and his favorite rattle to put in the memory box on the top shelf. The rest we packed up to bring to my cousin, who’s expecting her first baby in November. Jax was so excited to tell her all about how the rattle works when I texted her a photo, he didn’t care that he didn’t play with it anymore. I got to keep my favorite things, and we made space for the new stuff he wants, like his big bin of Lego that he plays with every afternoon.
The best thing I’ve learned, though, is that growing up doesn’t mean they never want to be your baby anymore. Last week he fell off his bike and scraped his knee pretty bad, and he ran right to me with his arms up, and I carried him inside and got his old pacifier out of the memory box (he’d asked for it a couple days before, I’d left it out) and he sat on my lap while I put a band aid on. That night he crawled into bed with me after a bad dream, and he fit just enough, his head on my shoulder, same as he did when he was tiny. It doesn’t have to be all or nothing.
This afternoon, I pulled a tiny white onesie with a yellow duck on the front out of the dryer, the one he wore home from the hospital. I held it up in my hands, and it was so small I could fold it in half twice, and for a second my throat felt tight, like everyone says it does when your baby grows up. Then Jax banged on the back door yelling that he wanted me to come play kickball with him in the yard. I folded the onesie, put it in the memory box, and wiped my hands on my jeans. When I got outside, he was already kicking the ball down the lawn and yelling for me to catch up. Some days I still slip up and call him my baby in front of his pre-K friends, and he rolls his eyes and pretends he doesn’t know me. Some days he crawls into my lap after a long day and doesn’t move for an hour. It’s fast, it’s messy, and it’s not over yet. I’m just learning to meet him where he is, instead of where I remember him being.
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