Please, don’t ever grow up.

Dear Baby,
Please don’t ever grow up.
You’re still surprised by what happens after “this little piggy had none.”
Your food ends up behind your ears, stuck to your chin, or inside your pants. And you eat it when you find it.
You’re intrigued by the people who live inside my phone, especially when they sing or speak.
You don’t like books for their words, or even their pictures. You like to tug and pull at their pages to test their binding.
You roll and squirm and kick and escape while I change your diaper. And then you pee right after I win.
You curse the taste of bananas, the empty bottle, or the fact that you have to wear pants. But when you sing along with those humans in my phone, the gibberish isn’t so bad.
You touch, lick, and eat the grocery receipt, your dirty diaper, your socks, and my nose. When I scold you, you smile. 
You make me say and do absurd things, but they don’t seem absurd when I say and do them for you.
Your head is unwieldy when you sit and play on my lap. You hit me in the face, my eyes water, and I end up crying about how fast your head has grown.
You fall asleep on my chest, and I don’t move an inch because I never know when will be the last time.
Your button nose and blue eyes are proof that you’re mine. But your too-short pants and castaway baby toys remind me you won’t be mine forever.

You’re my little explorer, the best giver of slobbery kisses, the reason I miss work, the reason I rush home from work, the source of my exhaustion, the robber of good sleep, and the most incredible thing that I’ve ever made.

Please, Baby, don’t ever grow up.

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