My 2-year-old turned into a 35-pound leech. Every waking moment he demanded that I hold him in my arms—standing, never sitting, as if my love weren’t real unless my biceps were burning. When I would run downstairs to get him a glass of milk or grab my iPhone, he would insist on being ferried along on my hip. Awesomely, my husband wasn’t allowed to help. I was apparently the only person on earth who could read to my son, sing to him, change his diaper, give him a bath, make his dinner, hand him his water, and strap him into his car seat. I’m not going to tell you what it’s been like dropping him off at school, because I’m trying to block out the memories.