I ignored the signs for months; walking, communicating, eating grown-up foods, throwing the occasional temper tantrum. Then an event happened that thrust McKenzie from infanthood to toddlerhood the way nothing else could: we met Madison. Sweet, eight pound, three-week-old, little, baby Madison.
As I held that preciously tiny newborn, too small to fill out her little ducky pajamas, I watched McKenzie. While Madison lounged comfortably in my arms, Kenzie wreaked havoc on a home not yet accustomed to a moving child. She was busy touching everything in sight and wandering around from room to room leaving a line of cracker crumbs in her trail. She was playing with the dog, riding the minature rocking horse, laughing at who knows what and babbling incoherently. She was a long way from being a new baby. It had been thirteen months since she was a new baby. She's more than a year old. Yup, toddlerhood is here.
Still, I have a hard time calling Kenzie my toddler. The word conjures up images of two and three-year-olds, talking and running and playing make-believe. McKenzie is years away from that. Right?
She'll always be my baby.
