Clara shuffles into my room in Minnie pajamas, paci in mouth, pointing to the window, “See! It’s light outside.” She is too little to be sleeping upstairs all alone in a big girl bed. It breaks my heart. I love milestones, and I hate them.
Come here, get up in my bed. You are still my baby, Clara. You are too, Audrey. And you, Hazel. And Margaret, my first baby. Don’t you ever think you are too grown. You are all babies.
Why does growing up hurt? Why am I always soooo ready for this milestone and that one? But then…when I realize it’s past, I feel a panic set in–I wasn’t ready for that at all!
When will it be the last time? You don’t know until it just…doesn’t happen again. The last time she nurses, the last time you carry her to bed, the last kiss on the mouth, the last time she wakes you in the middle of the night, the last time she needs you to open her granola bar, the last time she holds your hand.
Just try me. Try to get a teen attitude. Try it. I will pick you up and rock you like a baby. You are not too grown.