Each time I reach for my daughter and lock her in my embrace, I always feel somewhat sad for not being able to go back to the time when she was but a quiet bundle. She officially stopped being my "baby" and is now aptly called "my little girl". Even the word "little" would soon be passe for when she stands tall the top of her head almost reaches my collarbone.
Many milestones have passed since I first heard her heartbeat and felt her stirring in me. She's the only person on earth whose every single day of life's existence I have witnessed. I fed her from my breast during her first six months, brought her to every scheduled vaccination with the pedia, gave her first meal, and propped her for her first walk.
The memories of her babyhood are documented in my scrapbooks. Items that I stored away include her ultrasound printout, hospital bracelet, a lock of hair, the wee off-white dress of her dedication, and her first toys.
Several other firsts followed: the trip to the beach out of town, buying her movie CD, alphabet book, and teaching her to write her name (which I did only ONCE, as she picked up really fast and became efficient at it ever since).
There was kindergarten, during which she was given a little trophy for being the Best in Singing (you should hear reach high pitched notes with her angelic voice), baby ballet class (though no recital) and the first time she learned to float and flap her arms in the pool.
She never went through Preparatory Level, but moved on to First Grade, which required a lot of adjusting and overcoming fear (hugely on my part). And just this week, I rejoiced at the news that she will be receiving some kind of recognition at the end of her school year.
My six-year-old now aspires to be a lady as she dons my gold ballet flats (her favorite), and prefers dresses to wear at home rather than tops and short pants, and traipses around with her plastic tiara. She has moved on from Winnie the Pooh to Princess Rosella (Barbie), though at times, she would pop in a Barnie movie CD for old times' sake.
She squirms from my mother-bear hugs, then when I pretend to get upset, she agrees not to let go. Though I notice that she returns the gesture, that when we are alone by ourselves she would reach for my hand or sling her arm when we sleep side by side. She tells me "I love you, Mommy. You're my best friend."
These are truly moments that I cherish. I would not give up hours of helping her with schoolwork (even after I have not quite recovered from my graveyard shift) over a hefty-paying executive's day job.
In five years or so, when she starts to grow curves and I would need to buy her first bra (for now she pretends and puts two fists on her flat chest, heave up her shoulders while saying "boobs!"), she will start having other friends that she will share her secrets to.
When boys start to take notice...hmmm, I wonder if they'll slip love notes? Maybe they'll be texting her constantly, I would then know that her world would be her own without Mommy being at the center.
She will be seven this year. As modern customs dictate, she will have a special 7th birthday party. Knowing that she would want a princess theme, I can definitely grant her the gown, but I am not so inclined about ceremonies that include "Seven Roses" or "Seven Wishes". Somehow I cannot imagine her just left sitting in some special "throne" as an observer.
As I muse over these things, I feel compelled to run home, embrace her with a squeeze and press my cheek against hers. I know that each day means one less embrace of this sort for my very special treasure.
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