“The days are long but the years are short.”
Today this photo popped up in my Facebook feed and did a number on me.
As of this Summer, daughter is officially a teenager. She is five inches taller than me.
Her hair reaches the middle of her back, she is a great cook, and I am astonished and proud of the wise, curious, and socially aware woman that I see her becoming.
In so many ways she is still the same goofy, hilarious, animal-loving human whose image popped up in my timeline just now.
Still quick to laugh, up for a challenge, and loving as all get-out.
My kid. Still my kid…
Those fleece onesie pajamas would bunch up when I swooped her up for a hug. Her wild, baby chick hair would half float in the air and half stick to her damp toddler skin after a nap.
Back then she called her people “My” ______. “My Mama. My Papa. My Grammy.”
She belonged to us. And we belonged to her. Her people.
This feeling is the feeling that people were referring to when they said to that tired, sleep deprived, new-mom version of me that this time would pass quickly.
This is what they meant when they told the woman whose days were filled with the seemingly endless tasks: feed, bathe, clean and repeat that this time would be missed.
I found the advice annoying, laughable, and at times infuriating. The days of early childhood seemed to stretch on and on.
And here I am on the other side: sitting in front of the computer, having been transported to another time by a gritty Facebook image. Missing my sweet old dog and this toddler who played harmonica as she rocked wildly in my own childhood rocker, and wishing for just one more moment in that endless haze of new Mama-hood before I come back to reality and to the beauty of who this person has become and is yet to be…
And who I have become and will become and become and become…