My son turned eight months this week. Eight. Months. How is that possible? I feel like I just found out I was pregnant. Just took him home from the hospital. Just experienced the horrors of breast feeding. Just had a baby, basically. But he's eight months. He's starting to learn to crawl. He's sitting up on his own. He's reaching for and playing with his toys.
But those aren't the things that made me realize he's growing up. It was the miracle of him holding his own bottle this morning.
My son has always refused to hold his bottle. Wouldn't even try. And I'd think, "Won't it be nice when I can just hand him his drink and he can do it himself?" Now... I don't know what to think.
I love that he's gaining independence and learning to do things for himself, but a little part of me is a bit sad. I guess it signifies the beginning of him not needing his mama as much anymore. I know that's just silly, but I think it hit me like a ton of bricks. He won't always need me like he does right at this moment.
He's going to get bigger and learn to walk, talk, read, and form opinions. He's going to go to school, make friends, learn things his father and I could never teach him, get his heart broken, face challenges, and become a man.
My little boy will become a man.
It's amazing.
And terrifying.
All because he held his own bottle.
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