Before I was married and The Bean was just a twinkle in my eye, I was always laughing at the way pregnant ladies and moms measured time.  Why say you were 28 weeks pregnant when you could say 7 months?  Isn’t pregnancy measured in months?  Why say a kid is 13 months old – he’s one, for god’s sake!

I’m happy to say that I’ve left (most of) that ignorant girl behind, and now proudly tell anyone who asks the exact number of months that my Bean has been on this earth.  I measured my pregnancy by the hour instead of the week – forget about the freaking month!  I get it now – each week for a pregnant woman, each month for a mom (oh yeah, and the baby) is a huge milestone.  It’s the difference between sitting up and crawling, the difference between no teeth and two cute little chiclets, the difference between all formula and pureed green beans.  It’s a celebration, and we should acknowledge the joy and the hard work it took to get there.

I find it a little sad that, at some point soon, I’ll stop talking about how many months old The Bean is and will just start referring to her age in six month increments, and then whole years.  I feel like we’ll lose a little sense of pride when we don’t proclaim to the world that – yes! – we’ve gotten her through another month without any major screwups!  Maybe this will just be the first way I embarass her in public…I’ll continue to tell anyone and everyone exactly how many months old she is until she’s a teenager.  She won’t mind that, right?

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