Just the other day, I was pregnant with a baby girl. And then she arrived, with eyes that glowed like silver-blue discs and a head covered in the softest, blond wisps I’ve ever felt. I used to inhale her breath at every opportunity; the scent of purest honeysuckle so addictive, I swear I could live off it alone.
Then I blinked.
And those silver-blue discs can now read full chapter books and spot seemingly invisible ladybirds in the tiniest places. Those blond wisps turned into a ballerina bun, wrapped with pink and gold roses. The honeysuckle scent evaporated; replaced by adult teeth fighting for space in a not-so-adult mouth and hysterical giggles over a sweet kiss on the hand.
And my baby is not a baby but she still is and she’s dancing off to her Valentine’s Disco with the baby of another mama who…