Tomorrow my little girl turns eight. And while she'll always be my little girl, but she's not so little anymore. She's growing up and it is much, much too fast for this Momma. My heart aches tonight. It's the kind of ache that's accompanied by a lumpy throat and stinging, brimming eyes. How can she be eight? Stop!, my heart cries. Wait. Please, please wait.
I read once that when a child is born, two people are created; a child and a mother. Jeffrey would tell you that the truth is three people are created. My Mom would say five to seven, depending on which people had grandchildren already. No matter the head count, you get the point. And it's true. So true. I became a new Relyn when Sloane was born. A better, more fun, more thoughtful, hopefully wiser version of me. Definitely a safer-driving version.
Sloane and I played around tonight and I took some pictures of my seven year old, just before bed. This is what seven-nearly-eight will always look like to me.
It looks like silliness. And jokes about bums and booties. It looks like sleepy eyes and snuggles. Like giggle-filled whispers and dirty fingernails. It looks like drawings and stories and non-stop chatter. It looks like freckles across a nose and skinny arms cuddling two American Girl dolls.
It looks like love. Just like love.
If you'd like to wish the birthday girl a happy day, please visit her here. She'd really, really love it.
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