In just seven short days, my first born will be one year old. I just mailed out her birthday invitations and I cried the whole way home because you can't stay in denial mode after inviting your framily to celebrate (and mourn) that first year.I don't completely understand why I'm so torn up over this somewhat arbitrary milestone. When she wakes up next Tuesday, nothing will change, not physically (unless this stubborn tooth finally gives in and pops through). But according to rules and definitions decided by random people, I will no longer have an infant. Don't get me wrong, to see her figure out more and more of her little world each day - from her first steps the other night, to uncovering the flaps of new books all on her own, to turning on her favorite song all by herself and dancing the cutest jig... I love this stage where she is very quickly becoming her own person with thoughts and determination and emotions. But I will forever miss cradling my little bundle, waking up to her hungry coos from the crook of my arm, wearing her tiny body everywhere I went in my sling. By little baby is growing up before my very eyes. And I am so very proud of everything she has become.
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