The other night Joe was working late, I got the kid through bedtime and then went downstairs to get on my treadmill and watch Downton Abbey. After my hour was up I walked up to the kitchen and kept listening to my headphones while I cleaned up.

I don’t know how long she had been trying to get my attention, but I know that when I finished in the kitchen and started walking up to our bedroom she was waiting for me at the top of the stairs. She needed a bandaid for some minor injury or another, probably imagined. Another excuse to get out of bed and delay sleep a bit more.

The funny thing is as I looked up at her and saw her standing there waiting for me, the mommy she had been looking for or calling out to, it too a minute to register. I stared up at this little girl and remembered that she’s mine. I have a daughter, she’s ever-growing, she looks to me for all her needs.

I keep looking into her face and trying to figure out why she looks different again. Her features are changing, she’s taller, she talking at a constant clip about all different things. She’s gotten sillier, which I wasn’t sure was actually possible.

She has skills. I remember taking her into the pool for our first baby and me class, I remember sending her out on the ice with Daddy for the first time. Now she can do it all on her own, and better all the time.

It’s impossible than I am the mother of this child. I had a little baby.


I told my best friend that I still feel like a babysitter sometimes, like I’m 16 and have been put in charge for a few hours.

How can she possibly really be mine?


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