Stella, my darling girl, where has the time gone? How have you become so old, so downright smart, so fiercely independent, in such short notice? Where is my crawler, my swaddled babe? Where is that mohawk?
At every stage of your life thus far, I have anxiously anticipated the next stage. I couldn’t wait for you to smile and when you smiled, I couldn’t wait for you to laugh. And when you laughed, I couldn’t wait for you to eat solids and when you ate solids I couldn’t wait for you to crawl. And then I couldn’t wait for you to walk, which was so glorious and back saving and miraculous. I couldn’t wait for you use words, and when you said you first word, GO, I couldn’t wait for more words. And then I couldn’t wait for you to potty train, and when you kicked diapers to the curb, I couldn’t wait for you to talk, which was something I anticipated almost as much as your arrival. To hear you utter words and sentences, to listen to your mind piecing thoughts together, was a dream come true. And when you started talking freely, sometime in the fall, I found myself in a strange place.
I don’t want you to grow up anymore.
Can you stay here with me in time, can you stop getting older? I don’t want these bottomless free hugs to go away, or cuddling with you before bed, my arm wrapped around you, my face against your back. I like being best friends, I like talking about every little part of your day, I like all of the fun things we get to do together, like dancing in the evenings to Florence + The Machine, or running errands together, or playing in the yard with your friends or building things like castles and cardboard forts. I like the constant jokes, even though poopoo butt jokes can only take us so far. I’d like these things between us to exist forever. Capiche?
I guess what I’m trying to say is that I love the little girl you’re becoming.