My favorite age.

When she was born, I told myself that this was my favorite age. I loved to snuggle with her, cuddle her, and just hold that newborn goodness.

A few months later, as she started to smile at us, I said, now this is my favorite age. We could interact, and she seemed to recognize us.

When she started sleeping mostly through the night, I said, this must be my favorite age. I felt more myself and things just felt magic. She began to keep the Binky in her mouth by herself and continued to develop and round out physically. Surely, things couldn’t get better than that.

At seven months, she began to kick and splash in the bath. Resulting in my feeling like I was taking a bath too. I was sure that seven months was my favorite age. She enjoyed the “Johnny Jump Up” and her swing was pure magic.

Now, at almost nine months, she is at my favorite age. She babbles and makes the beginning sounds of words. Rolling from one end of the living room to the other, I have to be careful about what is on the floor. Everything and anything ends up in her mouth. She screams with joy and kicks her feet when I come in the room. Such pure unadulterated happiness. Yet the words on her bib as she stuffs bread and cheerio’s into her mouth seem so true “Feed me, and I will let you sleep.”

Surely this is my favorite age.