No matter how old he gets, my son will always be my baby. My little boy. Even when he's all grown up. But recently, it's like this strange thing happened to him. He just turned three, but he's like a miniature man. It's like he's three going on thirty. He is my "big little boy." Even though he's still a toddler, he's reached this point where he's so mature. He can carry on real conversations. He uses big words. He can count, and sing his ABCs and is finally (thank you, Jesus!) getting the whole "going on the potty" thing down. And while I'm ecstatic about these milestones, I'm also really, really sad.