the morning my baby turned four — and I noticed how quickly time had learned to move

The morning my baby turned four didn’t arrive loudly.

There was no rush yet, no voices filling the rooms, no small feet padding across the floor. Just quiet. The kind that only exists before the day begins.

Somewhere between yesterday and today, he crossed a line I didn’t see coming. Not from baby to toddler—but from something softer into something surer. Taller. More himself.

I stood there for a moment, noticing it. Letting it land. By the time the morning found its shape, he was already here.

Becoming

Later, he stood in front of a paper backdrop wearing a costume he chose himself. Confident. Certain. Holding his number four balloon like it belonged to him.

Four already carries opinions. Favorites. Imagination that spills beyond the edges.
He knows who he is pretending to be—and somehow, who he is becoming, too.

There was a time when I chose everything for him.

Now, I step back and watch.

And that feels like both a gift and a letting go.

Before He Woke Up

Before he opened his eyes, I was already loving him forward into the day.

The dining room waited quietly—balloons resting where they had been placed with intention, his cake standing still like it knew it mattered. Nothing was happening yet, and everything was already full.

These are the moments that never make noise.

The unseen work of motherhood.
The love in advance.

I thought about how many mornings I’ve stood quietly like this—packing his backpack, making sure he has his water bottle or car, setting out clothes, preparing spaces he hasn’t entered yet. How much of motherhood exists before the child ever notices?

Holding the Present

Later, he sat on the couch beneath balloons floating gently against the ceiling. He played. He laughed. He held his number four balloon as if it were nothing special at all.

And that’s when it hit me.

This—this—is the moment I’ll want back one day.

Not the cake cutting. Not the photos.
But the ordinary magic of him just being four, while I get to witness it.

I wish I could slow it down.
I wish I could tuck this version of him somewhere safe.

But instead, I stay present. I watch. I remember.

For the Mothers Watching Time Move

We measure time
in inches we didn’t notice growing,
in shoes suddenly too small,
in names they answer to without help.

Once, they needed us for everything.
Now, they need us
to stand back
and watch.

They grow forward,
while we learn how to stay—
holding the memory of who they were
without asking them to be it again.

Every year asks something new of us.
A softer grip.
A braver heart.
A deeper breath.

If loving them feels like losing something,
it’s only because it is also becoming something else.

And still—
we show up.
We decorate the morning.
We memorize the ordinary.

Because one day,
we will miss the weight of them at this age.
And be grateful we noticed
while it was still happening.

Four feels big.

It feels like the beginning of something new.
And the quiet closing of something I didn’t realize was ending.

The morning my baby turned four, I noticed how quickly time had learned to move.

And I held him a little longer because of it.

Details:

Some of the simple, real-life pieces from this birthday morning—online store-bought balloons, a Spider-Man cake left just as it came, and a few things we use and love at home—are saved on LikeToKnowIt.