My son turned one on the 2oth. He's officially a Toddler now, as his doctor told us. Time to move away from bottles. It's all about milk now (whole milk at that) instead of formula. Table foods (well, he's been doing that for a while) are on the menu.
It's so strange looking at him now versus the day he was born. See for yourself:
The picture on the left was his second day alive, the one on the right was taken by a gal at daycare on his birthday. Yes, the hat is cheesy. We bought is for him, because the women at daycare refer to him as, "Prince William." This is because he is:
A. one of the only boys in the room,
B. the only really cute AND nice boy,
C. "William" and there was a "Harry" in the room once upon a time. (Get it? English Princes?)
And yet, it's still odd to me that I am a parent. Don't get me wrong, I love my son. I still feel that I am not worthy to be a parent. That somehow I'll screw up and cause irreversible damage to him. But I also know that my sister and my parents and their parents all felt the same way. At night, when the darkness creeps in and the brain burns off the excess images stored in it, we have horrible dreams about children falling or getting hurt. Even worse, is when something happens. On Saturday, my wife went out to garden and took Little Leab with her. He was playing on the patio, and then fell off into the wild roses. He was lucky. No thorns got stuck, nothing in his eyes, but he did get scratches on his face and hands. In fact, as my dorky self would point out last night during bath time, "It looks like the Harry Potter lightning scar." And it does...but that's not what you're supposed to think about. Of course it also looks like the cats went to town on him.
Parenthood is tough, but it's fun. Strange but true. It's fun.
Of course what do I know? I'm still waiting for my nineteen-year-old self to show up at my door and beat me senseless. I could be wrong.
And Happy Birthday, Little Leab. I'm glad you were born.