Six years ago, I was in the hospital laboring away knowing that pretty soon a tiny little baby would come out and change everything. I didn't know whether that little one was a boy or a girl, but I was pretty sure it had to be one or the other.

Finally after 25 hours of labor, The Boy arrived. Perfect, beautiful and not tiny. He took his time coming out, because he was over nine pounds and had a head in the 95th percentile. He was also face up and had his hand up by his head. He clearly wanted to torture me and I suppose I'm lucky to have been able to deliver him without a c-section. But at the time I could only gaze at him in an exhausted stupor and fall totally in love.

Back then even as a big newborn, he seemed so tiny, so fragile. Now he's huge. His legs stretch way down. He used to fit on my chest and now he comes up way past my waist. He ponders and thinks and makes and does. He drives me absolutely batty and he fills me with wonder over how amazing he is. I look at his huge brown eyes and eyelashes that are longer than some feather dusters and wonder at how I could have had any part in the making of someone so beautiful. Lucky me.

But how can my baby be six?