A letter arrived from great grandma and grandpa this week, my precious baby of only 35.9 months is about to have a birthday. For some reason I prefer to count her age in months, she can’t be getting too grown up if I do, afterall that’s how babies ages are measured. Packaged beneath a few bright stickers and a scrawling script is a birthday card with a gigantic, leopard print 3 on it.
I’m not going to lie, I was a little devastated to see that number so boldly proclaiming my daughters triumph of aging. Like every mother of every child hitting a milestone, I wondered where the time had gone. Just a few short weeks ago she was cuddled up in my arms, her hospital newborn hat slouched low on her brow hiding a head of sweet, dark fringe. And only five days ago she uttered her first word, “dada” so sing songily to me. After so much coaching to say “mama” I was crushed by her linguistic rejection, but time heals all wounds.
So there it is, all laid out and clear, my practically-newborn daughter cannot be grown enough to receive a birthday card with a leopard print 3 on it… but she has. I suppose this state of denial visits every mother at some time, the wishing we could slow down, go back, re-live. Each day with my sweet girl has been a blessing from the Lord, I pray that we’ll get to make many more memories together, including seeing a zebra themed fourth birthday card next year… maybe.