I can’t believe it, but today my baby, my youngest, turns NINE.
Not 9 weeks or 9 months. But NINE years old. How can it be? Yesterday, she weighed less than 8 pounds. She was just a bun in the oven when we moved here. And now she’s almost as tall as my mother-in-law. (A sweet, petite thing, but still!) OK, so she may choose fancy T-shirts over Fancy Nancy sticker books, soccer balls over Sponge Bob and she may not suck her thumb any more. But she’s still my youngest.
Thankfully, she still likes her mother. (When she’s not getting a talking-to.) As long as I’m not dancing to Madonna or doing football cheers in front of her, she still likes her mom. But, my baby is growing up. And it’s wonderful and worrisome all at the same time. (I’m going to have a tough time when she turns 13, let me tell ya.) I’m so proud of my girl. She’s independent, funny and strong. But I’m having a really hard time seeing her get so big so fast. Happy number 9, S!