Now that P is a grown up, she’s a whole five years old now, I’m freaking out.
Like the way I did when she went from breast to bottle, or when she went to a friend’s house for the first time that wasn’t me and another mom getting together. I’m a normal mom in this sense, right? I cried when I did my sisters’ hair for prom, of course it will be rough , seeing my baby growing up. And yes she’ll always need me, even when she’s forty-five, but I can’t stop the bittersweet tummy ache. Every pair of sneakers she outgrows, is a passing of time. I now ask her about her day because I need to, not because I’m helping her engagement skills and vocabulary. She has her own friends, bullies, and teachers who steal her milk money (Teaser for the end of school year post)
This isn’t about me being broody, I don’t want a replacement baby. I want my baby, the one I fight for the best part of the couch with, the one who is kind of mean, bossing me around when we play My Little Pony.
I am happy, to see her evolve. I love watching it, I swell with pride, she teaches me things (Am I the only one who didn’t know what a rhombus was?) She is healthy and she is happy. That is what is important. I am being selfish, I am being clingy, and immature.
I guess this is just me being a mom?
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