Don’t call me baby
How long can you call your youngest child – who might well be somewhere in the region of, say, around 23-and-a-bit months – a baby?
Asking for a ‘friend’ who had a conversation recently while out for lunch that went something like this:
- Friend: Oh, the baby can have this off the menu…
- Friend’s husband: *Interrupts* Who?
- Friend: The BABY – you know! Our youngest child
- Friend’s husband: She’s not a baby! She’s nearly two!
- Friend: Arghhh *downs largest glass of imaginary wine on the menu*
Oh, man, my friend just can’t give it up can she? And…oh, yes, it’s me.
But seriously, how long can you legitimately call them a baby for?
I know that clearly she’s definitely a toddler and all that brings with it, and has been for a long long while. Especially as she now calls other younger children ‘baby’. And has very definite opinions about what she wants to wear (yellow wellies) and have from the menu.
And I know I’m much less obsessed about the passing of baby milestones second time round – we recently threw the cot out without a backward glance, probably because it had been taking up room in our room forever, we never used it and it really hurt when you walked into it in the dark. So no nostalgia about that.
And I only really know her age in months as it’s so close to the end of when you even refer to them in months. It’s not like I’m clinging on to the last fragments of the baby days, wailing.
But, oh baby. I still call her that…it’s almost like a reflex action really, isn’t it? Just because she’s the youngest and isn’t that what she is?
There also seems like something so final about not having a baby any more, especially as there’s no immediate plans for a third baby (especially not today when I’ve just spent most of my life doing bedtime).
So as one normally does in these moments of medium drama, I asked my mum. ‘You and your brothers will always be my babies!’ She said. Me and my brothers are all in our mid-to-late thirties. So I reckon there’s still some time left.