second letter to my daughter

left: 43 weeks ago. right: yesterday.

dear Molly,

watching you in your high chair this morning, with yogurt and Cheerios and raspberry smeared on your face, i felt the tiniest stab of sadness in my heart. "she's almost one," i thought, more wistfully than i wanted. now that you're eleven months old, the countdown to your first birthday is officially on. and though i feel joyful about all of it, i have to admit (grudgingly) to feeling mournful, too.

the other day i was changing your diaper and as i gazed down at you on the changing table, i had this weird realization that i don't remember what it was like to change you when you were a tiny baby. obviously i changed a lot of your diapers and onesies over the last eleven months, but it's just gone so darn fast. each month was five minutes, and the girl you are today seems like the girl you've been since the beginning.

the funny thing is, i've spent more time with you in your first year of life than i did with either of your brothers. we haven't been apart for a single day. i couldn't ask for a better gift, especially with you, because i was so convinced i wouldn't be a good mama to a baby girl—but it hasn't made time go any slower.

i say often that i never want to be the kind of mother who feels sad about watching her children grow, but i'm starting to realize it's a little inevitable. motherhood by definition is bittersweet. still, i'm going to try my hardest to shrug off the bitter and soak up the sweet moments of these last few weeks of your first year. 

you'll always be my precious little bean, but there really is absolutely nothing mournful at all about watching you sprout (i had to!) into a beautiful, sassy, smart and super-strong little girl. even with Cheerios and raspberries and yogurt on your face. 

i love you forever & always,

mama