So, this is the last month of babyhood, I've been told. I'm not going to go into a long rambling of the year we've just had, or reminisce about the day you were born, I'll save that for next month, and for a day when I've got plenty of tissues nearby. But I've been facing the realization that you aren't babies anymore. And I'm in a state of denial. When discussing my needs with the Dell Computer Guy the other day, I advised him that my laptop would need to be able to support all of the 7,621 photos of my "newborn" babies. When advising the lingerie consultant that I needed one of those support undies for the wedding, my reasoning was that "I just had twins". Both of these individuals offered me words of congratulations and then asked how old you were. When I said that you were just about eleven months old, I distinctly noticed the crinkle in one of the salesperson's nose, as she immediately spotted my fudging of the truth to justify my less than stellar post-babIES body. (emphasis added). On the other hand, when I spot a newborn, I am immediately filled with a sense of longing for that unmistakable scent of a new baby. My arms ache to hold that helpless pile of softness and I get all misty-eyed and silly. Audrey, you'll let me cuddle, but now that you're crawling, you'd rather be following Big Sister around the kitchen. And Maggie, you're just about ready to go from standing to walking to running out the door and into the world. YOUR world. I thought I'd have until your teens, but you already act as if you don't have time for me now! So, I'm going to try to hang on to every minute of these last few days of babyhood. Too soon, you'll be toddlers, then tweens, then unrecognizable young women, but for now, you're still my babies.