Life as a New Mom: Bye Bye, Baby

My baby is no longer a baby. Kids grow up; it's part of life. I get it--but why didn't anyone tell me it was going to be so hard? Every time I look at my daughter, it seems as if she's lost more of that sweet baby chub--you know what I am talking about: chunky little wrists or feet or cheeks that scream out for you to squeeze or cuddle or kiss. My baby is now a KID. I am not ready for this. Like, at all.

We went out for Mother's Day, observing the annual tradition in which we go to Jim -N-Nick's and eat barbecue and pie (and I get extra pie to-go; it's consumed during my Mother's Day Law & Order: SVU sweatpants binge-a-thon). At one point, I had to take Dolly to the restroom. Before we walked in, I held her up next to the door; the word "women" was painted in black letters on the glass, so I took the time to point out each letter and ask her to identify it.

She nailed it, BTW. That kid already knows the entire alphabet and can point out each letter by sight. Anyway--we had to move so another lady could walk past us. She told me my little girl was very bright and asked how old she was. She guessed four, and when I told her Dolly was just two she was surprised.

My daughter is super tall (she gets that from me and her dad), so this statement from a stranger should not have shocked me, but it did nonetheless.

My baby, the little bitty five-pound baby who was born three weeks before her due date, the baby who used to wake me up at midnight for a warm bottle, the baby I watched learn to roll over, sit, crawl, walk, and run, the tiny, wonderful, beautiful, perfect pint-sized person I've always thought of as my baby--she now passes for a four-year-old.

And it happened in the blink of an eye.

I think about it now and I want to cry. It's so bittersweet. I am proud of my daughter; she's growing up to be an exceptionally bright, kind, and capable person--but I miss those late-night lullabies and bottles, just as I'll miss our present-day trips to the park or bedtime stories in a few years.

Why does it hurt so much? Is it because I miss the days of her infancy--or is it because I know we're on a fixed timeline and in a few years, she'll be off to school then college and out on her own in the great big world?

I remember graduating high school. My mom cried; I thought it was just because she was proud of me, and in true teenage jerkface fashion I was like, "Mom, stooop. You're embarrassing me."

But I get it now. When I watch a graduation ceremony and see students walk across the stage, I know each one of those young adults started out as someone's sweet little baby.