She’s seventeen. She can supposedly drive a car—I’m keeping my thoughts to myself on this until someone actually gives her a license. She can see an R-rated movie by herself, provided I let her. She’s taking the SAT and touring colleges.
Yet all I see is the eight-month old in the pink striped overalls and white hat, with big blue eyes (they were blue then, instead of green as they are now), sitting on a blanket outside in the grass, waving at passersby and waiting for Daddy to come home from work.
It’s weird. A good weird, but weird, nonetheless, because I don’t have any desire to go back in time. Sure, there are elements I’d love to relive, like the new-baby smell, or the neighborhood walks, or watching her sleep, or the cuddles. But there are plenty of things I have no desire to go through again—the hyper-alert status that goes on for years, the tantrums, the constant entertaining until she learned to entertain herself (at least for a little while).
I’m having a hard time with how old she’s gotten. She’s on the cusp of adulthood and I can see it, taste it almost. She’s going to be an amazing woman. My cousin and I used to talk about our daughters when they were tiny. A year apart, and stubborn as anything, we used to say they’d turn into strong women, if we lived long enough. Well, she’s going to be one heck of a strong woman, a fact I’m infinitely glad about.
I’ve lived just about long enough to see it. And this next chapter is going to be amazing.