You may call me AUNT Debby

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My Lil Ditter is now a mommy; therefore, I am now an aunt! And, as Sissy says: “Baby Jasson” is soooooooooo toot!!!

I am a bit overpowered by the flood of emotions pouring over me at the news of this event – not that I didn’t have 9 months to prepare!

I was 10 years old when my sister was born. I remember running as fast as I could all the way home after school the day she and Mom came home from the hospital. I loved her so dearly. I was thrilled at the fact she would take a bottle from me. I was thrilled at the fact she would let me hold her for a whole hour. I loved dressing her up all the time: adding ears and a cotton tail to her feet pajamas; dressing her in my 3-foot Holly Hobbie doll’s dress, bloomers and bonnet; dressing her in a red turtle-neck, to match mine, then hugging her and hugging her and asking Mom whether she could tell whose arm was whose; dressing her in a sweatband and legwarmers and other various 80’s “fashion” to be “Libby John,” i.e. Olivia Newton John; and the list could go on. And this little baby, my Lil Ditter, is now a mommy with her own little baby.

And hearing her wonderful stories, descriptions, feelings . . . as a mom, I understand. I remember the births of Sissy and Baby Boy, the nursing and embracing of these tightly swaddled babes, the early months when they accomplish so much and reveal their personality. I remember the exceeding joy that a new babe inspires by his mere existence. And Baby (as we called Sissy) is now doing most things for herself, and is also folding my washcloths, helping me sweep and mop, telling stories, singing songs (mostly Holy, Holy, Holy, Psalm 4 and Tinkle Tinkle Little Star (not a typo)), sounding out words, “reading” her books by herself, expressing her preferences, answering her catechism questions, etc. And Baby Boy (who has not yet outgrown his “baby” name!) is exploring the WHOLE house via the commando crawl, eating everything he can find on the floor, chasing Sissy, trying to pull himself up – and falling down, feeding himself cereal, saying “mama” and “dada” (not necessarily in that order, unfortunately), leaning into Sissy’s line of vision and babbling to her to get her attention, understanding the meaning of “no,” “singing” at church during the hymns and psalms, etc. These babes are no longer babes.

It makes me sad . . . and happy.

I need a quick fix. HUBBY, I NEED ME A BABY!!!

Could someone get the smelling salts for the grandparents?!?

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