Thirteen Years

My girl    Thirteen years ago, I was so pregnant I could barely breathe. My toes had
disappeared beneath my belly months before,
and I couldn’t even bend over to put shoes on my own swollen feet.

I was done. Those last few days before I could hold my baby in my arms moved like molasses.

And then she was there, tiny and helpless, and everyone told me to soak in the moments. That I would blink and she would be grown.

When the nights are long and sleepless and just living feels like a battle for sanity, time seems to pause. I wasn’t sure she would ever be anything but little.

Today she sat down beside me, shoulder to shoulder, her legs stretching out beyond mine. My little girl, undeniably a woman-child. For a moment I could almost feel the rush of time, like wind in my face. We’ve crested the hill, and we’re gaining speed.

It’s thrilling and terrifying in the same moment.

She’s gone from a tippy-toed little girl in a tutu and fairy wings to a young woman with dreams and passion and a heart for Jesus.

    Blink and she’s grown.

She sat beside me quietly, lost in thought. And then she leaned over and nestled her head against my shoulder, and I stroked her forehead with two fingers, just like I did when she was a newborn.

And I realized the truth of something my mom used to say.

No matter how grown up my girl gets, she will always be my baby.

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