It'll be Lucy's birthday tomorrow. Just one more before the big 15 we've been holding out in the ever-diminishing distance, a date which once seemed so far away it was easy to push off all of the adult privileges and responsibilities we told her would be hers to hold once she crossed that threshold. Just one short year. She's just a baby! She doesn't know it yet, but I'm going to cling to this next year like tomorrow clings to the end of today.
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| Not Exactly The Type To Take Herself Too Seriously |
Lucy is my first and so with every change that comes, she carries the brunt of my reaction (usually mind numbing sadness accompanied by bags of potato chips, or embarrassing joy accompanied by other potato chips). It's not easy and she carries it well. I think she knows that all of it, all my ups, downs and in-betweens are tethered ever so tightly to my complete, overwhelming, sometimes over-the-top (ok, more than sometimes) love for and adoration of her. She fills me with so much pride I'm certain others can see it on my skin, through my clothes and escaping from the ends of every curl on my head. She is my baby!
That'll never change, I'm sure, no matter how much she grows, spreads, reaches away. For me, the soft, flawless, amazing baby that was handed to me on the day she was born is the same one who now plays soccer (a little violently) and rocks a saxophone and makes the grade and handles herself like a real pro, focused, ready and ambitious.
A year from now we'll be marking passage from childhood into young adulthood. I think she's already passed. The days of high school and boys and jobs and worries await. It'll be a quick wink before she's an adult, carrying on with the chores of her own life, with children of her own, perhaps. She'll be a mommy!
Still. No matter. She is, and always will be, my baby.
