Baba, stop growing up so fast. The leaves are turning rusty and golden, curling and falling to the ground. Your second birthday is around the corner, and I feel myself drawing nearer to that little girl peeking out from behind the toddler.
You won’t remember these metamorphosis moments I’m privileged to witness, but I will. There are things I wish I could forget: your shrill shrieking and rigid tantrum poses spring to mind. Other memories are more meaningful; I press these into my heart carefully, like a leaf tucked inside a book.
They include things like how you always want to go into our “big bed” at night. Or the way your head bops in the back seat to Pharrell’s “Happy” song. That time you snuggled on my lap when I picked you up at Nana’s house. The moment you looked up at me from under your lashes, and simply said “Miss you, Mama.”
It’s true: you have lived in the world longer than you have lived in the womb. You have enough hair for a messy bun. You come up with new words out of nowhere, shocking me out of everyday stupor by saying things like “perfect” and “nightgown.”
Tall for your age with wise eyes that see into the heart of things, you know we’re talking about you even when we try to disguise it. People call you an old soul, and I sense the same. This isn’t the first life cycle we’ve been on together. Thank you for picking me to be your mother this time around. There is no higher honour.
You won’t remember these metamorphosis moments I’m privileged to witness, but I will. There are things I wish I could forget: your shrill shrieking and rigid tantrum poses spring to mind. Other memories are more meaningful; I press these into my heart carefully, like a leaf tucked inside a book.
They include things like how you always want to go into our “big bed” at night. Or the way your head bops in the back seat to Pharrell’s “Happy” song. That time you snuggled on my lap when I picked you up at Nana’s house. The moment you looked up at me from under your lashes, and simply said “Miss you, Mama.”
It’s true: you have lived in the world longer than you have lived in the womb. You have enough hair for a messy bun. You come up with new words out of nowhere, shocking me out of everyday stupor by saying things like “perfect” and “nightgown.”
Tall for your age with wise eyes that see into the heart of things, you know we’re talking about you even when we try to disguise it. People call you an old soul, and I sense the same. This isn’t the first life cycle we’ve been on together. Thank you for picking me to be your mother this time around. There is no higher honour.
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