(October 23, 2016)

When my husband and I first became parents, the advice we received most often was simply, “Enjoy it; they grow up fast.”

How very true.

Suddenly, I have a preschooler – A PRESCHOOLER! – a three-going on fourteen-year-old. She actually keeps referring to her next birthday as her fourteenth birthday. Nope. Hold up. Not quite, Sweetheart. In some ways, Olivia is well aware of her youth and its limitations. She thinks it’s hysterical when I jokingly ask her if she can take a few chores off of my plate, like doing the laundry, grocery shopping and paying the bills.

“No, I can’t!” she giggles. “I’m just a little kid!”

On the other hand, she has a very strong sense of self and an opinion on everything, which she will gladly share with you, whether or not she is asked to do so. And you would do well to not disagree with her. I think she may be priming herself for success on a debate team. I find her steadfast obstinacy quite amusing and yet, at times, exhausting. Specifically, I am looking forward to the days of school uniforms because it will bring an end to our early morning fuss-capades involving the seven variations of outfits that are all perfectly acceptable on the hanger but somehow manage to become a kaleidoscope of discomfort once on her body. Her complaints, among others:

“It’s itching my tummy!”
“These pants are too long!”
“These pants are too short!”
“Pink is NOT my favorite anymore!”
“I don’t like blue, Mommy!”
“These sleeves are poking out!”
“I don’t want to wear those shoes! I want to donate them.”
“Pink and gray are NOT good together.”

So, yeah, bring on the uniforms.

***

Long after she was too old for this, Olivia allowed us to rock her before bedtime every night, a ritual that I wanted to hold onto for as long as possible. We would spend 15 or so minutes lulling our toddler to sleep and then gently place her into bed. But one night, after only a minute or two of rocking, she whispered softly, “Mommy, I’m ready to get in my bed.” I helped her off of my lap and onto her feet. She then walked over to her bed and climbed in, and I pulled the blanket up to her shoulders.

“Good night, Baby. I love you.”

“I love you, Mommy.”

“Sweet dreams.”

“Sweet dreams, Mommy.”

“Buenos noches.”

“Buenos noches.”

It was the same every night. And then one day, out of the blue…

“Mommy, don’t call me Baby,” she instructed. “I’m not a baby anymore, so you can’t call me Baby. Just Honey and Sweet Pea.”

“Oh, okay.” I was surprised. “And Sugarplum?”

“Yeah, and Sugarplum.”

As you can imagine, a three-year-old habit is not so easy to break. So over the next two days, I probably called her “Baby” at least 20 times, and it never went unnoticed. Each time, she would remind me politely, but with a hint of frustration in her tone, “Mom-my! I said don’t call me Baby.” And I would answer the same way every time, “I’m sorry, Honey. I keep forgetting. I’ll try harder.”

But there it is – a constant reminder, and from Olivia herself, that she is no longer a baby. She is decidedly, undeniably a big girl.

And these are the growing pains.

While I joyfully celebrate every milestone and revel in every achievement of hers, I can’t help but feel just a little bit sad to realize how truly FAST she is growing – in every way. Because with that realization comes the understanding that, as she becomes less and less dependent on me, it will naturally become easier and easier for her to put distance between us. I just hope that the distance is as narrow as possible while still allowing her to flourish as her own individual.

So, for now, if she wants to go to school as a Mardi Gras ballerina prepared for a sudden torrential downpour, so be it. After all, they grow up so fast.