eight

As I write this, it's 10:28 p.m. At this moment eight years ago I was about eight centimetres dilated after roughly 28 hours of labour. Almost eight hours later my eight pound, 12 ounce baby girl emerged bleating like a little lamb.

She confounds me, she delights me, she tests my patience, she overwhelms me with love. She's often more mature than me, more easily forgives, and asks "are you happy?" when she knows I'm not which prompts me to make a mental adjustment to my own attitude. She talks and moves incessantly, but will fall silent on occasion, and will ask for quiet time when she feels sad or overwhelmed. 

She is pulling away from us slowly, desiring to be with her friends more than with us.  But still loves to snuggle with a book at bedtime, play frisbee or catch with us at the park, or go boogie boarding at the beach.

She is smart and silly and joyful and today my baby is eight.  Eight.  I don't know what to do with that fact so I'm going to ignore it and go watch her sleep and listen to her breathe and grieve a little and then wake up tomorrow and eat chocolate cupcakes with her and watch breathlessly for what she'll do next...