Tonight as I rocked her and sang her a lullaby, she looked at me in the same way she used to when I would nurse her in that same chair. Was it that long ago that she was a helpless infant who needed me for everything? How is she already speaking in complete sentences and playing with friends and putting on her own shoes and clearing her dishes and explaining her day to me?
It doesn’t matter if I am ready for her to be a big kid, because she is ready to be one. This week she moved from the toddler class at her school to the “big kid” class, which is three to six year-olds.
She’s not three yet. Her birthday is six weeks away. It doesn’t matter if I’m ready.
This amazingly silly and sweet child of mine who is so quick to give me a hug and a “besito” when I need it is also quick to make friends and settle in a new environment. She’s like the tiny puppy who doesn’t know she’s a tiny puppy and just jumps right in with all the big dogs. And it’s so hard for me let her run free.
She is my baby. And she’s a big kid. And I’m not ready.
But it doesn’t matter. Because it’s not about me – it’s about her. And she is ready.