I always say that I am a great parent of toddlers. I am not so crazy about babies, and I am thoroughly afraid of adolescents. I can handle animated movies, finger foods and shoes without laces just fine.

I am, however, slowly coming to the realization that I am not the mother of babies anymore. My sweet Max is quite fascinated by the hair growing on his legs and seems to be more mature every single minute. We had a funny conversation in the car this morning that reminded me that my baby is not a baby anymore, but he can always be my little boy.

“My friend, Jake, started a club. Chick Diggers. You have to work out to get more chicks.”

In my own mind I am screaming, “please God no, I am not prepared for this”. Then I remember that he just turned 6 years old.

”What’s a chick?”

“I dunno”

The tone of the voice in my head changes immediately : ) “How are you going to get more chicks if you don’t know what they are?”
“Well, I just know they’re not the little yellow ones.”

Good enough for me . . .