One day this week Henry had his sister’s “My Little Pony” in the stroller. He was more than happy to take it from his sister after we dropped her off at preschool. Some little boy pointed at my son and said, “That’s a girl toy!”

I rolled my eyes. We’ve exhausted that haven’t we? The “Boy Toys” and “Girl Toys,” thing has been discussed ad nauseam. Let kids play with what they want. Shut up you little twerp. Ugh! I just wanted to shout, “Don’t you know about that poor, sweet boy who attempted suicide after being bullied for being a “Bronie?!” No, of course he doesn’t know that. He’s a little kid.

I didn’t respond. I just rolled Henry away. Honestly, I’m just grateful he’s playing with an actual toy. Here is a list of things I have had to take from my 1-year-old in the last week because he was playing with them.

• Size 10 men’s Rainbow flip-flop
• Bottle of Clinique Happy Heart perfume
• World Atlas
• Dog bed from the Martha Stewart Pet Collection that my dog has laid on twice
• Jar of Miracle Whip
• Nintendo Wii U Game Pad
• Starbucks straw
• Ice cube
• Car keys
• Clorox Toilet Wand and holder
• Bottle of Eucerin lotion
• Harris Teeter VIC card
• Crock Pot lid
• A half masticated baby carrot
• Styrofoam bowl
• A 2013 calendar
• Decaf Keurig K-Cups
• Weekly preschool report from the teacher
• A window pane (Yep, he ripped it out of the window.)
• The ottoman
• Dog food (Which also made a good snack, apparently.)
• Angry Birds boxer shorts
• A battery powered candle
• His own poop

So, when I see my son playing, instead of asking myself “Oh! Wait! Is this a ‘Boy Toy?!'” I ask myself “Wait! Is that toxic? Could he get sick from chewing that? How long should I wash his hands this time?”  He can play with whatever he wants as long as it is a freakin’ TOY from the TOY AISLE! Maybe I should just get Clorox Toilet Wand refills for his Easter basket this year. He’d be thrilled.

Wait. Are those toxic?

I wanted to dress the kids in their Tar Heel gear in honor of the beloved long-time men’s head basketball coach Dean Smith. He died this weekend. When I had a boy after having a girl there were surprisingly quite a few outfits and onesies I could pass down to Baby Brother from Big Sister. Yellow and green pajamas, plain white undershirts and sports shirts come to mind.

We had lots of sports stuff. All our family’s alma maters, both NFL teams and our NHL team. The shirts go on and on. I found this one in Henry’s size.

I looked at him. Something looked funny. It took me a second, then I noticed the little white hearts and the puckered sleeves. Oh, technically this is a “girls shirt.” I thought for a second about leaving him in it. If it took me that long to notice, who cares, right? I chuckled and changed his shirt.

Then I got frustrated that I chuckled at this situation. I was frustrated at myself for changing my son’s clothes. I imagined for a second that my children were reversed, that I had a boy first and a girl second. If a little sister were to wear her brother’s old t-shirt it would be “cool” or “fun.” If my son wears his sister’s shirt, it’s humorous or even degrading. Even as a one-year-old it somehow emasculates him to wear a “girl shirt.” It goes back to the “guys dressing in drag is funny” thing. I love the little hearts, personally. For my daughter it was awesome. We’re girly-girls but we also love sports and cheering on our teams. That’s just who we are. But, I changed my son’s shirt.

If I can accomplish one thing as a mother raising a son it would be that one day he is in a locker room, on a playground or gym and corrects another boy for using the term “like a girl” in a derogatory way. (That Super Bowl ad. Loved it!) Even if he never corrects another, I have done my job if he never says someone is “like a girl” in a bad way.

It’s funny, though. I never said the word “princess” to my daughter and she found the pink sparkly magic all by herself. I never said the word “train” to my son and he is suddenly fanatical about trains and trucks. There is something to be said for “kid stuff” in general, though. My daughter loves “Cars,” my son watches “Sofia The First.”

If I’m such a feminist, then why did I change his clothes? Well, I figure I’ll start my kids out in the traditional garb of their gender and they can make their own decisions later. My daughter loves dresses. That’s what she likes and chooses to wear. If one day my son wants to wear his sister’s old “Frozen” shirt. I’ll cringe for whatever ridicule he may face. I’ll warn him some people may be rude about it, but I’ll let him make the decision.

Before the basketball tournaments I’ll find a “boys” Tar Heels shirt for him. I’ll be a feminist example through actions, not wardrobe.

It’s everywhere. It’s looming over us wherever we go. Preschool, the store, church, friends’ houses. Name a place. We are all in fear of any one of the numerous plagues wreaking wintertime havoc. Last week Henry and I were down with a seriously nasty cold. He had the cold on top of Roseola which resulted in a 4-day fever. In Charlotte’s class there has been a child stricken with flu and another with strep throat in the past week.

The germs! My God, the germs! We can’t seem to escape them. No amount of grocery cart sanitizing is gonna save us this winter. Seriously, ya’ll.

I’m glad we got flu shots, but we all know the strains going around aren’t being covered by the shot. Sweet Jesus, I keep having flashbacks to 2007. 2007 was the ONE YEAR I was too lazy to get my flu shot. Well, I got the flu and I wanted to die. Seriously. Praying for death. People who don’t get the flu shot have never had the flu. I mean the kind of flu that is diagnosed as actual Influenza. They give you Tamiflu and you are on your ass for 5 days. That kind of flu. Not the “Oh, I feel achy and my my nose has been runny for two days.” I mean the flu.

I feel like I was pretty responsible when Henry was sick, paranoid even. Paranoid about spreading germs. We cancelled all New Years plans. We stayed away from everyone until the pediatrician told me he was “no longer contagious.” (FYI: For Roseola, that’s when the rash appears. Our doctor said you are not contagious by the time the fever breaks and the rash appears. Here’s more on Roseola.)

However, some cold symptoms remained, turning into an ear infection. We are now on a round of antibiotics. I know the answer, but I always ask about ear infections, “It’s not contagious, right?” The answer is always, “No, not contagious.” Cool. Okay.

As he’s getting over it, but boogers remain. Nasty green boogers and the occasional slug of yellow snot stick to his sweet face. I wipe it, and wipe it and wipe it again. With wipes, with tissues. He screams. It sucks.

Here’s what bugs me: The stank looks I get from other parents and adults in general when my kid’s nose is crusty. I want to shout, “I know it’s the peak of flu/strep/puking season. I’m SORRY! I’m doing the best I can! He screams like I’m skinning him alive to wipe his face! Boogers and snot are part of being a human child! The doctor says he’s not contagious anymore!” 

I feel like I’m constantly reciting his recent medical history when someone says, “He needs a tissue.” I just can’t stay ahead of the snot. I’m sorry, but we can’t stay inside forever. Occasionally you will have to witness my boy in his natural state during snot season.

Oh. Hi. I wasn’t here much last week. It was mostly because we’ve been to Christmas parties, work functions, preschool performances, church gatherings, neighborhood dinners and any other festive event you can think of.

Of all the frivolity of Christmas 2014, I think this 40 seconds will stand out as the highlight in my mind. It’s my 4-year-old’s rendition of “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.”

Maybe it’s the baby gate around the tree, the the adorably invasive baby brother waddling in his diaper or the quick pan to the laundry half-folded, but this is what I’ll remember most:  My beautiful, messy babes, ages 4 and 1, singing and stumbling. They are healthy and fun. They make our world go around and they certainly make this Christmas special.

He’s 13 months old. He nurses less and less. He would drink more if I let him, but today he just nursed before bed. I stopped pumping right after his first birthday. He kept breastfeeding each day before naps and bed, but we’re doing it less. His big sister stopped at 13 months. I remember being a little sad, but I was okay. Time marched on. I would have another baby. No biggie. It was actually nice to have my body be my own again.

This time I’m sad.

This might be my last baby. All the infant milestones have been a little more bittersweet with the second baby, but this one hurts.

What if this is the last time I ever nurse one of my babies? This might be it. It may be over. I may never be pregnant again. I may never snuggle my sleepy newborn or snuggle my round little infant as they suckle.

If I stop nursing him, will he still want to snuggle with me? Maybe. Maybe not. Everyday I steal kisses and snuggles in “catch and release” style as he wobbles toward toddlerhood.

Part of me is ready to be done breastfeeding. He has a mouth full of teeth and vigorous kicking legs. But, the other part of me looks into his eyes that are turning a darker shade of blue into the green of my own and I want to hold him tighter. I cradle a baby that is (kind of) calm when he nurses. He smiles with coos and grunts that make us both giggle. Those times are ours alone, and they are numbered.

I don’t know when the last time I nurse him will be. I don’t remember the exact last time with my daughter. I just know it’s coming soon.

Instead of mourning the time gone, I’m trying to be thankful for being able to successfully breastfeed two healthy babies. I know not all mothers get that. I’m thankful that breastfeeding was a mostly positive experience for me.

This just marks the end of infancy. I am excited for what is to come. I am. I’m just bracing my heart for more milestones that may be a little bittersweet.

Alright. I’m bucking up. I’m looking into their little faces and being excited and thankful. I can do this. It’s almost time for the last time, and that’s okay. Writing this makes me feel better. Time marches on. Ah, motherhood! It is bittersweet.