As I began to rock my toddler to sleep, I couldn’t help but notice a significant change.
She has one treasured relic of babyhood, however, that both of us are having a difficult time parting with—Wobby.
I almost dread more the time they get left behind—just objects again, not alive like now. The time that inescapable, steady march towards adulthood consumes this bit of childhood’s magic
Contractions, colic, teething. The cycle continues. Beginnings are scary, but endings are scarier.
Even as I celebrate her growing up, I cannot ignore my desire to be near her, to hold onto her, to feel her on my lap.
“You read to me Mommy?” It isn’t really a question, but more of an emotional appeal.
My dad said I was just like Grandma, who always left out a crucial ingredient or two when sharing recipes long-ago committed to memory.
So I will continue to snuggle her every single night, twice when she needs it. And I will prepare for the day she packs up her stuff and heads out into the big world like the confident courageous girl she is.
In the wake of motherhood when my world feels as though it is crumbling beneath me, I reach for her unwavering strength.
While I want her to grow and thrive, while I want her to be strong and independent, I’m not ready to teach her how to shave.