It’s August now, which means that at the end of the month, four-year-old String Bean will start her pre-K class (sort of advanced preschool), and two-and-a-half-year-old Peanut will be starting preschool for the first time. On the one hand, it means I’ll have a little more alone time, on the two days per week that they’re both in school for three hours. On the other hand, it means that my baby is definitely not a baby anymore, and this makes me feel a little sad.
My husband and I both agree that Peanut is in one of her most adorable phases right now: still perfectly lap-sized, with pinch-able hints of toddler chub in her cheeks, able to communicate clearly and walk everywhere by herself, and past the worst of the terrible-twos, but not sassy yet. She’s ticklish and giggly and excited about everything (except food), she loves to sing and play make-believe, and she’s a little bundle of joyful energy and enthusiasm, who laughs more than the rest of the family combined.
So, of course, what I’m saying is that while I can’t wait for those extra hours of freedom per week, I really don’t want to spend any less time with her. At least not until this very cute and agreeable phase of hers is over.