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My baby isn’t my baby anymore. That’s the thing that stands out to me the most. When she wakes up on a Saturday morning before me, walks into the kitchen and makes herself a bowl of cereal without needing a damn thing from me, I’m awestruck. Awestruck at the extra 20 minutes of sleep she’s granted me. Awestruck at the little girl who no longer needs me for everything in the same way that she once did.
My baby isn’t my baby anymore.
She’s my first. Potentially my only, depending on what the universe has in store. And, when I brought her home from the hospital, when I placed her in my car and drove away, it felt like a dream I was sure to wake up from.
She was perfect. And she was mine. And no one gets that lucky, right?
Ten little fingers and ten little toes, the cutest little upturned nose and a tiny little body that just curled into mine every time I held her. How could I not fall in love? I swear when I look at pictures of the baby she once was, I can still smell her. And, yeah, I’m tearing up a little just typing that.
Those early months were hard, but also magical. I actually loved our nighttime feedings because it was just us, there in the dark and quiet, soaking each other in. From feeding to diaper changes, she needed me for everything. She relied on me completely for both survival and love. She was this innocent, helpless little ball of perfection.
But now, already, she can read both her name and mine, and no longer even tells me when she’s gone poop. She just gets in there, wipes herself, washes her hands and calls it a day. My baby doesn’t even need me to wipe her butt anymore!
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Article and photo credit: Mom.me