A month or so ago, our little Maile girl turned two years old. It went by so quickly, the first two years of her life. When I was pregnant, and grandmothers would nod knowingly at my belly and cluck, "Enjoy it while you can! Soon that baby in there will be grown and gone," I didn't know just how much truth was in those words. Or maybe I just didn't want to. Warp speed. That's how fast it goes.
While Maile dreams, she grows. She'll do something new for the first time tomorrow. Maybe suddenly be too long for all her tees -- again. It brings tears to my eyes.
I confess that, when she was an infant, I often found myself wishing I could find a fast forward button. Now I just want to find a way to press pause. Her hair smells of coconut and baby sweat when she's sleeping hard. After a fit, her temples break out in tiny, perfect, angry polka-dots, that make her look like a beautiful, infuriated fairy. She still needs us. She climbs up into our laps, pulls our arms around her tightly, and says, "Snuggle me." I know it will end all too fast.
It does keep getting better, it's true. I still wish life would slow down, if only a little.
Maile, I wasn't one of those mothers who was certain I would love you, before you were even born. In fact, one of my greatest fears was that I wouldn't be able to love you enough. I suppose that fear has evolved into me being afraid that I won't be able to show you how much I love you. But I'll keep trying.