You’re Still So Little

You wanted to talk when you were just a tiny baby. You would make noises that sounded like attempts at words before you were even one.

You were desperate to move and figured out how to push yourself along the floor before you figured out how to get yourself up on your knees to crawl.

By age one you were walking. You had potty trained yourself by age two. You taught yourself to tie your shoes because you wanted to wear shoes with laces.

I watched you walk up the steps of the big yellow school bus and you barely turned around to look at me.

When I ask you to get a cup for your drink you have poured yourself water before I even turn around. Then you ask your Dad if he prefers sparkling or still as you prepare drinks for the whole family.

You are an independent, determined and helpful little girl.

You have started to close your bedroom door when you’re changing and you whisper secrets to your friends while you play.

You continue to amaze me every single day.

When bedtime rolls around and you ask me to sleep with you for just five minutes sometimes I get annoyed.

I’m sorry for that. You see sometimes I get caught up in the mundane tasks for motherhood. When you ask me to sleep with you my mind is racing with all the things that wait for me downstairs. Lunches to pack, laundry to fold, emails to answer. When you ask me to sleep with you sometimes I tell you that you’re a big girl and you can sleep on your own.

What I forget is that you’re still so little.

I’m reminded when I finally drag myself, exhausted upstairs to bed and I see that you have snuck into my bed. Your tiny body lost in the duvet and pillows of our king size bed. When I slide under to covers beside you and you let out a sigh, snuggle in close and wrap your little arms around my neck I’m reminded that you’re not such a big girl. You’re fingers are so tiny, your feet still so small. You still sleep like a baby; all restless and sweaty. Your dreams cause you to cry out in your sleep and desperately search for your mother.

I’m reminded of how little you are in the early morning quiet when you tiptoe out of your room, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and ask me for a cuddle. As I sweep you growing body up into my arms and we sit on the stair or the stool or the end of your bed I relish in the sweetness of the moment. I inhale your familiar scent and your warmth seeps into the very depth of me and I’m reminded that you are still so little.

You are so capable of doing whatever you set out to do. You don’t want anyone to do anything for you and when you struggle with something you keep at it until you get it. You are growing up so fast and every day I learn something new about you, every day I am proud to be your mother.

It’s because of this independence that I forget you really are still just a little girl, my little girl. Sometimes I just need a gentle reminder of it so that I can enjoy your littleness for just a moment more.