It happened so suddenly.
We were at the park, Re and I. It used to be our favourite spot once upon a time, but now that we have moved to a building with a park, we don’t go there quite as often. Re was ecstatic to find his old haunt. He first ran around aimlessly, trying to mark his territory, uttering sounds of glee, running to every corner, trying to pick his workout for the evening. He spotted a slide for older kids, and started climbing it as if in a hurry. I was surprised, as he usually picked the smaller one at the other end of the park. I pointed in the direction of the small one. “Don’t you want to go on that one?,” I asked
“That slide is for babies, mamma. This one is for children,” he said, as he began climbing once again.
“So what are you, Re,?” I asked, anxious and happy at the same time.
“I am a children,” he said.
Oh. My. God.
Just like that, my little one had transitioned from a baby into a child. And he knew it. How do they know it? How do they find out? Is it the point where they can wear their shoes with less clumsiness? Their underwear? Their shorts? It is when they start going to the bathroom on their own? Having a bath on their own? Perhaps. But maybe it is far more subtle. May be I totally missed it.
I also saw him climb up a slope with spikes that he was intimidated by a few weeks ago. Now he was doing it with aplomb. Over and over again. “I did it, mamma,” he gave me a thumbs-up. I melted into a pool of mush.
“Carry you? But I thought you are a big boy now!”
“I am not a big boy. I am a small boy,” he said, reclaiming the child in him.
And that’s how we roll.