My baby girl is three.
I don't even know where to begin.
In some ways, I feel as if I've come to the finish line of a race. Like when our babies turn three, we should be handed a ribbon (or at least a participation certificate) and congratulated on surviving baby and toddlerhood. Only it's a race that dumps off at the beginning of another race, like, "Surprise! You finished the marathon! There's another one here! No time to explain! Your big girl is climbing on that chair to try to cook her own grilled cheese! RUN RUN RUN!"
And just like when I run, I feel GOOD about parenting a baby. I'm GLAD I parented her as a toddler. I have the fondest memories of the past three years.
And just like when I run, I'm glad it's over.
Am I sad that she's growing up, that the time is going so fast, that it's slipping away? Yes? Sometimes I miss the days of holding my biggest girl in my arms and staring her in the eyes and the two of us being each other's entire world.
But the world is bigger than that now, and really she knows it better than I do. And as much as I love staring into her eyes, staring out at the world with her hand in mine might be even better.
Sometimes I call BG my mini-me because of her big feelings and her tendency to take on some of my mannerisms and to mother everyone. But she isn't me, really. She is her own little person and at three nothing could be more evident.
My sweet three year old daughter. My baby girl. The one who taught me how to be a mother, who broke me down and rebuilt me, who looks at the world with wonder and awe, who hugs strangers, who kisses her baby sister's fuzzy head every night, who knows exactly what she wants and doesn't want, who dances and plays and sings, who wants a stage and a microphone.
You, my sweet biggest girl, are three. And I don't want to fast forward or rewind or even pause really.
I'm just so glad to be part of your show.