I tucked my little boy into bed a few minutes ago—he turns four years old tomorrow, and although he is the youngest of three children, he is no longer my “baby.”  For some reason, I didn’t have the power to leave his room after I got him settled underneath his beloved purple blankie (the one with the very worn tags).  

Piles of ironing and a cluttered bedroom closet nagged my mind, but I just had to give him one more kiss, read him one more story, and stroke his hair one more time.  For tomorrow, he will not be three—he will have officially graduated from his year of potty-training, moving to a big-boy bed, and learning to write his name. 

Now that I am back in my room, I have no desire to organize my closet, or watch TV, or read the book I have been dying to finish.  I want to go back into his room, hold him, and enjoy these last few minutes of “three.”  I better get going!