Eight years

Wow. It's been eight years. Eight! Years! My youngest baby was born eight years ago and it doesn't seem possible. And at the same time it seems so long ago. Moms, you know what I mean, don't you?

I remember the big details - the date, the time you were born, the look of you as a baby. Other details have faded over the years - the specifics of labor, the name of the fill-in doctor who delivered you, the outfit you wore home from the hospital. I wish I could say I remember the way your tiny body felt in my arm, but it's been so long and all I know now is how heavy your head feels against my arm on the occasions that you scoot in that close, which have gotten fewer and farther between as the years go by.

I've watched you roll over and sit up and walk and talk and run and learn to read and ride a bike, knowing you were the last of my children and it was the last time I'd experience such things as mother. There are still things ahead.

I'm still waiting for you to loose your first tooth. I'm not all that eager. I remember worriedly asking the dentist when my oldest son was this age when his adult teeth would come in. He expressed concern and even mentioned pulling out baby teeth if they didn't come out on their own soon. This time I'm not rushing to the dentist. They'll come out when they're ready.

Happy birthday, you'll forever be my baby!