“I can’t believe she was ever so small.”
I say that every time I look at one of Anna’s baby pictures. I remember what it was like to cradle her on my arm when she was a newborn. I remember her learning to roll, to crawl, and to pull herself up. But when I see pictures, I am always awed by how little she was.
“I can’t believe you’re getting so big!”
She’s eight now, and I say that every time I try to pick her up. I don’t pick her up much anymore, and when I do I know I’ll probably pull a muscle in my back or my arm. But sometimes I forget and pick her up.
“I can’t believe how fast she’s growing up.”
Eight years ago she was a newborn. Eight years from now she’ll be driving a car. Two years after that, she’ll be eighteen and on the verge of graduating high school. Then we’ll be helping her move—probably to Corvallis—so she can start college—probably at Oregon State.
She’s in a hurry to grow up. I want her to slow down and enjoy childhood while it lasts.
She wants to be big. To do everything for herself. And I want that too—in time.
But deep down, I miss when she was small.