My Baby isn't a Baby.

He's three.  Three whole years old.  Somehow, time has managed to fly right past me and my teeny newborn who wanted to nurse every two hours, who loved to stare at the painting of the moon, who loved to be carried in the Moby, right next to my heart is now an almost preschooler who is non-stop on the go, who loves to paint but not to color, who requests vegetables for breakfast, who is just about potty trained (!!!), who has very distinct preferences in his clothing (and is finally wearing size 24 months, now that he's 36 months), who loves music with his whole soul, who will sometimes wake up, rub his eyes sleepily and announce, "that was a GOOD nap, Mama," who loves to play with Littlest Pets and 'food toys,' who practically knows how to use my iPod-- this is my son.  My three year old. My baby.