(Photo by Cami Dickey Jones)
A common scene: I hear Amelia stirring in her bedroom in the early hours of morning. I open the door, watch her lingering between asleep and awake as the sun kisses her hair through the window. I walk over to her bed, and say, “Good morning, Sweetie.” She sucks her thumb a few moments more, then suddenly springs to life. “Mommy, did I growed up yet?”
She is fixated on growing up, and assesses everybody we meet by whether they are more or less grown than she. Her determination to become big breaks my heart, as you must know.
But the girl is growing up. She has changed so much, even in the last month. Gone are the frequent tantrums. Gone are the constant power struggles that so recently plagued us night and day. She is, for the most part, reasonable. She listens. She considers. She comes up with solutions to problems, and talks about the process in those terms. She knows the difference between real and pretend. She suddenly knows that animals don’t talk and that houses don’t fly. She is getting so much braver when it comes to, well, everything. Oh, it grieves my soul. Truly, it is the end of an era, of her toddlerhood, and toddlerhood is my very favorite stage of human-ness.
But she is blossoming, and it is magical to watch. She paints. She sculpts. She sings and dances and “whistles.” She spins magical tales of monsters and monkeys and little girls and boys. She watches Curious George and Caillou and Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood with a concentration of which I am incapable of mustering. She reads stories, and studies every last detail of the pages. She remembers everything. She knows the words to songs after listening to them twice. (Her favorites are What does the Fox Say, Roar, Cups, and All the Single Ladies.)
She is sweet and sensitive and shy. She watches everybody and hears everything. Everything. Everything.
We go for walks and play games like “I spy” and “Be on the Lookout for Halloween-y Things.” We go on hiking exploration expeditions, and hunt for treasures like rocks and leaves and shells.
We explore zoos and botanical gardens and parks. We roll down hills, play, “You’ll never catch me,” and lie on the grass to watch the trees rain leaves or the clouds moving across the sky or birds and airplanes flying.
I treasure every second that I get to spend with my girls. I know how transient this phase of my life is, so in the same moment I kiss Amelia’s hair and breathe in its apple-flavored deliciousness, my heart breaks because I know this child is leaving me a little every day. She has been leaving me her whole life, really, since the moment she slipped out of my body three and a half years ago.
Occasionally when she is having a rough day she reverts to baby talk. I gather her in my arms and start saying “Goochy goochy goo!” and the likes. She giggles but then solemnly asserts, in her sweet, sing-songy voice, “Mom, I’m not a baby anymore! I growed up.”
Grow on, baby girl. I’m behind you every step of the way, wiping my eyes just a little bit as we go.
(Photo by Melanie Isaak Photography)
