"Oh, no," I say, somewhat taken aback. "He's not a toddler yet."
She looks at me, confusion written across her face, as my little guy wobbily runs down the hallway of our church.
"Really," I insist. "He probably shouldn't be with the toddlers. He's barely one."
Her eyes follow his toddling body as his feet struggle to keep up with his torso and his arms, fueled by excitement.
I'm pretty sure to her, he looks like a toddler.
But what about everything else?
His cheeks, they are so round still.
And his legs, they are still so chubby that his baby leggings curl down past the rolls to his knees.
He barely has four teeth at one year.
He nurses just like a newborn during the day and at night.
And his belly is so round, squishy and full.
Oh, and his hair -- it's so fine and soft and silky -- and just so very baby.
So you see, my very dear, very loving friend who is in charge of childcare, he's really not a toddler at all.
He's really a walking baby.
By the time I think this all through, he has already burst through the gate of the nursery doors, and he's climbing atop one of the play houses.
I see the futility of my case.
And I know that he's probably a walking baby only in my heart.
But you just can't argue with a mommy's heart.
So he's a walking baby incognito as a toddler.
In the one-year-olds' room.