Truthfully, I remember turning ten rather well. I felt like ten was so much older than nine. I felt like I was this big kid suddenly, and not a baby anymore. But in reality, it was just one day. One morning I was nine and the next I was ten. That's it. But to me, growing up, it felt like a world of a difference.
That extra digit really meant something.
I see my daughter turning ten, and I'm blessed and happy with how innocent she still is, and how I've been able to keep her pace slower than mine was. She isn't chasing boys on the playground or prank calling them. She isn't wearing makeup to school or carrying a purse. She still happily rides her scooter and sometimes her clothes don't match (please don't tell her this).
Most importantly, she has a bed full off cherished stuffed animals.
Time passes quickly, and it's hard to believe she isn't a toddler anymore. Or learning her alphabet. She is growing into a responsible, loving "tween," and I'm afraid for the day she actually does want a boyfriend.
Oh the agony. Hold me now.
Today, I'm celebrating my baby girl, who is no longer an actual "baby" (excuse me while I sniffle). I would love to hold her just once more as a tiny newborn, wearing her preemie sleeper. Or rock her to sleep as a toddler after a busy day.
That would be the ultimate gift.
I'll have to celebrate with big hugs and birthday cake, because this kid is worth celebrating. Her tiny face still takes my breath away, and I'm beyond blessed she is my daughter.
Boys, stay away.
Seriously.
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