This morning, around 10:30 N had a tantrum, so I sent him to his bed to calm down. 10 minutes later he was still there, so I went up to see if he had fallen asleep. His back was to me, and he was curled around his cloth "baby", which is now more a pile of rags held together by a couple of stitches. Since I was feeling tired myself, I lay down next to him. He turned to me and we just talked--nothing in particular, it was more in the line of him asking questions.

"Who is make our teef?"

"God"

"Why is, God make our teef?"

"Why do you think?"

"So our can eat."

"That's right."

"Who made our ears?"

"God did."

"Who made our pillow?"

"A man."

And so he continued, asking who made this and that, one of his favorite little games. As he talked I studied his face, inches from my own. Even though I treasured this time with him as it happened, I couldn't help but feel melancholy as I thought of how fleeting time is. All too soon he will speak in perfect English, with correct sentence structure and pronunciation. He'll be too big to snuggle. I won't feel his little hands on my face asking who made our eyes/cheeks/nose. It's so easy to try to rush our kids through their childhood, willing them to "grow up", be more independant. But I think most parents feel this tug, even as we cheer on our kids as they learn new skills, we feel a small loss as our babies slip away.