My son is three years old.
Three. A full-fledged toddler. He stopped being a baby a while ago. Stopped looking like one when his baby face left and a big boy face revealed itself in its place. He stopped sounding like one when he began talking in sentences, talking about Monet’s Waterlilies and butterflies being beautiful.
Now, “3” seems like this monumental number with so many different meanings in my son’s life (and my life, as well):
It began when I was pregnant. Our health was measured in terms of trimesters.
My son arrived several days early. He was ready to join the world and chose to do so on an auspicious day - March 30th, or 03-30. He shares his birthday with my mom and Vincent Van Gogh, for a total of 3 pretty incredible people born on that day.
Unlike myself, my son has three initials. His middle name was easily chosen; it honors his late uncle, his daddy’s younger brother.
There are three boys in our family - Ryan and his two cousins, Matthew and Christopher.
Our immediate family has three members - Ryan, Mommy, and Daddy.
At my son’s three-year-old check up, he measured 3 feet, 3.5 inches tall and weighed 36 pounds. As if I could forget that he is now 3, his measurements are entirely made up of 3’s.
Lastly, Ryan received a tricycle for his birthday. My son is now learning to be mobile on a three-wheeled device. Watching my son “ride” up and down the sidewalk in front of our house, with his Toy Story helmet on, I began to cry. My son is a little boy. For ever on, he will be my “sweet pea,” my “angel pie,” but he is certainly no longer a baby. We’re ready for the next batch of adventures awaiting us in the land of 3 and beyond.