You’re only 3 years old, and I’ve already known four little versions of you.
First there was the newborn, my first baby. That was the one who cried a lot, slept little, and fed often. Above all, that was the one who fit perfectly in the crook of my arms and preferred to sleep there rather than anywhere else. That little version of you would rest your hand on my chest while you fed and smile at me when you were done, just before falling asleep. I loved stroking the few strands of hair on your perfectly round head and sliding my thumb over your tiny fingers as they squeezed mine.
Then you became the chubby-cheeked baby with big blue eyes who smiled at everyone, whether they were strangers or not. You were the one who could spend hours playing in the closets, clacking wooden spoons together, and crawling as fast as you could to catch a toy car rolling by. He was the first to start returning my hugs, resting his head on my shoulder and patting my back very gently. That little version of you marveled at everything, laughing with us without knowing why—just because.
You then continued to grow into the 2-year-old who walked clumsily, still stumbling often. That little one pronounced words in such a funny way! That version of you who said “mimi” instead of “me” and couldn’t say “cat” right—you made us laugh so much. That little one still let me hold his hand or rock him and wouldn’t let Dad touch me. That little you would sometimes spend long minutes watching dust dance in a ray of sunlight, without a care in the world.
Now, you’re the 3-year-old boy who never, ever stops talking. The one who negotiates everything—from special permissions to consequences. You’re the boy who never turns down a hug from the people he loves, the one who can’t stay sulky for more than two minutes, the one who jumps for joy at the thought of seeing his friends or family. The one who “LOVES” everything and isn’t afraid of (almost) anything. The one who goes to bed on his own, uses the bathroom, gets dressed, and rides his bike like a big boy. That little boy often interrupts me while I’m talking or doing chores, just to say, “Mom? I love you.”
This version of you, right now, is my favorite. I’m going to miss it—you can’t imagine how much. I know that the future versions of you won’t seek out my attention and affection quite as much. I’ll be able to have serious conversations with them, and they’ll make me just as proud—in so many other ways. I’m really looking forward to getting to know your future versions, to meeting you as a teenager, to discovering your passions and your academic choices, and to watching you become the incredible adult I know you’ll be.
The “you” of the present moment will always be my favorite—don’t worry… but I’ll always miss the older versions of you.
I love you.