conversations with winter boots

  There has been a new thought that has slowly been sinking into my subconscious of late: the realization that Evening is not a baby anymore. 
 
  It began with a pang of guilt when I referred to her as ‘my baby’ recently.

  It grew as I watched her play with her toys, babbling away as they acted out  -something- and she was lost in her own little world, all by herself.

  It’s also very noticeable when she grins at me and several tiny white teeth reveal themselves.

  Most mothers I know experience some sort of regret when they begin to notice these things.  While I’m in no hurry for Evening to grow up, I feel rather excited for what's to come.

  She was such a happy baby and she’s still so happy that I expect she is going to remain an amazingly positive and fun little person. 

  I’d love to hear what she thinks about…well, anything.  I very much want to hear the talking versions of her babbling stories with her toys, our cats, and my winter boots.  

  Especially my winter boots, because it seems to me that a very great sign of being an adult is no longer understanding what one has to say to a pair of winter boots, and I'd like to have that piece of childhood back.