One of my daughters celebrated her sixth birthday today and while I was sitting at the table looking back through her baby book a small flat piece of dried clay fell out of a pocket.
My daughter was six months old when I pressed her chubby little hand into that clay. I remember it took several tries before I achieved a clear, deep impression.
Seeing that little hand from so long ago in contrast to the young girl standing next to me made me cry.
I have been with this child every single day of her life, save one or two, and I cannot fathom how she managed to grow so much so fast.
Where is the baby to whom this handprint belongs? I know she existed because I have boxes and boxes of unscrapbooked photos to prove it. I have eyewitnesses. (The midwife who delivered her even called today to wish her a happy birthday.)
How many precious hours and days did I take her for granted, thinking that "tomorrow" would come 'round and the baby would still be a baby and I could enjoy that babyness then. Not today, there's too much to do.
I made a conscious effort after my first child left babyhood behind much too soon to keep better track of the next one -- more pictures, more scrapbooks, more journal entries, more video. As if any of that captures a child and suspends them in time.
Six years have passed, and while I remember with melancholy her very first steps as if she took them yesterday, I rejoice at the beautiful girl who now dances through the house in her ballet costume with fairy wings attached.
Thank you, Father.
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