Abe. Age 12.

This oldest boy of mine doesn’t always appear on my blog as often as he used to.

He doesn’t spill his milk or play in toilets. He no longer demands I take pictures of his latest Play-Doh creation or mistakenly say silly words that don’t make sense.

He’s growing up. He has come to a stage that takes a bit more thought for me to write about (Legos and messy faces are easy) -- a stage that I feel deserves a bit more care and caution when it comes to putting his life down here in a public place.(And let’s be honest. He isn’t always the most willing photo subject.)

But, it may surprise you to hear (particularly if you just read my post of despair over Anders getting a buzz cut and looking slightly less babyish) that I am not pining away for days that are past; not full of panic over “kids growing up” and the passage of time.

I loved little boy Abe. And, I occasionally get nervous about the things older Abe will confront as he goes through his teenage years; but, . . . I like my growing up boy. I like so much my life with little ones, yes, but not just little ones anymore.

I like having someone who will recommend a good book to me, or stay up late to watch an older show with just Mike and I. I like laughing with someone not just because they did something silly and cute, but because they actually said something maturely clever and witty.

It’s not so bad having your babies grow up a bit after all. I kind of like seeing those tiny, wonderful and exhausting babies turn into . . . I don’t know . . . real and enjoyable humans. (Although I suppose my little people are technically humans as well.)