Ah, my little bundle of joy, the one who used to wail and giggle, the one with chubby hands reaching out to me and a toothless grin that could melt hearts — he’s officially 3 years old now. Three and a half, to be exact, which is crucial at this age when they sprout up and learn faster than I can keep track.
Three and a half. I still have memories of being that age, feeling like a whole person with thoughts and emotions. My baby, whom I affectionately call Sunny, insists he’s still small, declaring, “Me not big. Me tiny!” But no amount of denial can erase the milestones: he’s mastered potty training, and his speech is clear enough for outsiders to understand. It’s rare now that I carry him on my back. He sleeps in our bed but sprawls out, limbs everywhere, clutching his Paw Patrol stuffed animal like a knight with his sword.
Gone are the days of nursing bras and worrying about breastfeeding accessibility. He still loves to cuddle and asks for kisses and hugs, but today he drew a person — complete with arms, legs, eyes, and a sword. Just like that, I transitioned from a baby mom to a mom of a little boy. In fact, I’m a mom of three little boys: 7, 5, and 3 and a half.
This shift has been in the making for quite some time. I used to be not just a babywearer but a certified babywearing educator — yes, there’s a certification for that! I was the welcoming face at new parent meetings, expertly wrapping my baby in a complicated carry that left him high on my back. I was the mentor, the experienced mother guiding the newbies through the baby maze.
As babywearing faded into the background, so did my connection to those friendships. Our conversations shifted from diaper debates to the very basics of toddlerhood. My baby wasn’t the tiny squish that new moms brought to meetings anymore, and while I loved him just as he was, it stung a bit. The women who once felt like best friends began to drift away; we had little in common beyond the early days of motherhood. Suddenly, I found myself without a tribe. No more scouring the Target baby section for deals, and I stopped obsessively checking cloth diaper swaps. I lost touch with several Facebook groups, and while I connected with other homeschooling moms, I still felt like an outsider.
I cherish the friendships I’ve made — the adventurous kayaker whose daughter my oldest son has a crush on, the sweet mom whose son shares my middle child’s obsession with Spinosaurus, and the kind-hearted mom with equally kind kids. But these relationships feel fragile; playdates are less frequent as our kids grow up.
I used to offer help by cleaning my friends’ bathrooms — a true sign of love. I’ve seen their homes in chaos and brought them coffee when they were too exhausted to brew their own. I miss that deep kinship.
These days, it’s hard to find where I fit in. Without a baby, I don’t have the instant camaraderie that comes with school drop-offs and class parties. I’ve started leaning towards old friends — the fashion-savvy photographer and her poet husband, the single dad friend whose son plays with Sunny. I’m even dressing up more, wearing makeup and going on dates with my husband. I enjoy this new chapter in my life, but I can’t help but feel a void where my previous role once was.
I used to be needed every moment of the day, and now my son is big enough to be left with others. He can tell me to go away and whine about wanting to watch Ninjago. I didn’t realize how much I needed the feeling of being needed until it was gone, leaving a blank space in my life. I need to fill it — with friends, books, art, poetry, and music.
Filling that void, however, is much harder than being needed ever was.
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Summary
Transitioning from the baby years to toddlerhood has been a bittersweet journey for me. My once little squish is now a growing boy, and with that change, I’ve found myself navigating new friendships and a shift in identity. While I cherish my current life and the friendships I’ve built, I miss the deep connections from my baby days. As I adjust to this new phase, I realize I need to find new ways to fill the void left by my little one’s growing independence.