We gave my 18-month-old son his first haircut over the weekend. It was long, long, long overdue. Did I say long? Yeah. Long overdue. He looked like a baby eighties hairband rocker. In fact, my 3-year-old son started saying, “He’s a guitar player!” I have no idea how my 3-year-old knows guitar players have long hair, but he does. And my 18-month-old looked the part.
While I knew the haircut was necessary and I couldn’t make up excuses any longer (“But his twin sister with no hair will be jealous!” or “But his curls are so cute!” or “Don’t you just love a baby boy with long hair?”), I was sad to see the hair go. That was his baby hair. He’ll never have THAT hair again. Sure, sure, it grows back. But not in the downy soft, curly mess it was. Not if my 3-year-old’s hair is any indicator. It’ll grow back straight as an arrow. It’ll be perfectly lovely, sure. But…sigh…as his mother I just have to take this moment and woe how quickly they grow up.
You see, barring any immaculate conceptions or…um…oopsies, we will not be having any more children. I am perfectly content with three kids and confident in our decision. So, I’ve got to hold on to these baby moments as long as I can. I’ll never have them again. I’m so excited to watch them grow up. And I love all the things they learn to do each day. But these moments that sometimes drive me crazy will be gone forever and will only live on in the pictures and my memories. And that makes me just a teeny bit sad.
So, unless one of you can send me a super thick book I can set on their heads to keep them small forever (like, say, all the volumes of the OED bound into one gigantic tome), I suppose I just have to live with the fact my children will grow up. And they’ll do it fast.