With two little girls I am apt to save everything in the name of practicality–every dress, every sweater, every headband–that belonged to Miss C for little sister.
Perhaps Miss A is a second hand Rose most of the time, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She’s twirly girly enough, but has a lot of tom boy in her. Plus she gets plenty of new clothes on her birthday and for Christmas. Trust me, our closets are not empty. I’ve been sorting through clothes and it’s hard for me to believe she is already wearing a size 6 in many things. So many of Miss C’s old clothes bring back memories from certain days and photographs and it seems like yesterday she was the one wearing them.
The other day on the playground Miss A shouted to me from her vantage point between the monkey bars and the slide, “Mom I’m 5 1/2, right?” She was having one of those “Well I’M almost…” insert age here smack down conversations with the other girls close to her age. I was having one of those, “Is she REALLY calling me mom?” moments.
Kids are so anxious to grow up. Parents are so anxious to slow down.
I had to think about it for a split second (thank you motherhood for taking away much needed oxygen to my brain cells) and realized, why yes she is 5 1/2.
How can it be I have one daughter who is inching toward 9 and one who is inching toward 6?
How can it be that I have one daughter who will be starting her last year of elementary school next year and one who will be starting first grade?
They’re just numbers.
I keep telling myself that.