I woke up, and you were two days from turning three. You went to your first day of Sunday School instead of the nursery. Your daddy stayed with you for about ten minutes, and I dashed to the nursery so that I wouldn't have to think about it and because it was my week on the schedule. I picked you up and you had a paper bag craft with your name on it. You carried it proudly and asked to go to church - not quite understanding that this was now church for you.
At the picnic, you drank pink lemonade from a clear Solo cup, and you asked to go play (like the bigger kids were doing). So I held your hand, and walked you to the bounce house. But you kept dropping my hand to run on ahead. I smiled as I watched you on the inflatable trampoline machine - the way you sat in there while the other preschoolers bounced, unsure of what to do but you were clearly enjoying that you were finally a part of the action.
We drove home after one because you and your brother were getting cranky. Looking back to the backseat where you chattered on about this and that, I noticed how much you are not a baby. Then a part of my heart broke off and a part of it soared.