The Progression

She's still a baby. That's what I tell myself. Two years ago this week, I found out that she would be mine. I remember it like yesterday, just like I remember the day she finally arrived. And here she is, nearly one and a half years old.

She still sleeps in her crib, clutching a stuffed monkey in one arm and a soft blanket in the other. She pushes my cheek with her hand when she needs my attention directed somewhere. She gleefully teeters from one room to the next now, squealing with delight, falling down, and begging for my arm to pull her up. She grasps my fingers and begins to walk again.

But in that moment where her hand leaves mine, I feel it.

Soon, her steps will steady and fall into a run. The words of the stories I read her will get longer until she doesn't needs my lap to sit in, or my chest to lean against as she points to the pages. Her own words will form more clearly and sweetly until we are speaking the very same language. She will stop calling me "Mimi" and trade it for "Mama", and one day she will even realize I have a name apart from "Mom". Scribbles and swirls will turn into the letters of her name in her own handwriting. The help she needs to tie her shoes and brush her hair will fade into memories I read about in my journal. Someday, she'll blush when I tell those stories.

I will be so proud of her, proud of every single accomplishment that no one else sees or understands. She'll be  breathtaking and brilliant. The years will be good to her. She will learn things I will never know and accomplish more than I ever can. And the growing up she does will shower me with the beauty and heartbreak every mother knows.

She is more mine and less mine every second.