A girl, coming into her own...

I could remember a time when my daughter wasn't even a year old. She would sit on the floor of her bedroom, surrounded by stacks of books and her little head was barely visible over the height. When I would lean against the doorway, I could clearly see her larger than life blonde pony tail sitting high above the towering books and showing her presence. 

She would sit for hours, delicately turning each page, as she "read" every book on her shelf. She already had a massive vocabulary and even said 2-3 word sentences, so I would nestle beside her, as she told me what was happening in the story. 

This memory remains the most vivid out of all my memories with her. It reminds me of a time when she was just learning to walk. When she was trying to reach a stage of independence outside of crawling capabilities. But even when she would take those wobbly first steps towards freedom, she would still reach for my outstretched arm that always waited for her, pulling her close to my heart. 

Finding her in that spot was as predictable as the sun rising. Her love of books is something she was born with. It wasn't acquired as time passed. From day one, she had this inner yearning to read, write, and speak (and not in that order). And even when I read to her as an infant or even 4 months +, she would calmly sit on my lap and intently listen to each word on each page. She never became impatient and hurried through the story.

Now I find a girl, with much longer dark blonde hair, sitting nestled on the edge of her bed, patiently sounding out the hardest of words for her age. She tries and tries, as she perseveres through each page, reading harder and harder books. Then, she pulls out the easier, Step to Reading Batman books, and calls for her little brother, so she can read some of his favorite books to him... And he eagerly rests his head on her shoulder and hangs onto her every word.

Here she is, newly 6 years old and reading above average for her age group. Always wanting to learn more and read more. Always wanting to know the whys and whats of the world and diligently thumbing through all the appropriate books, seeking answers.

Everywhere I look, I find notes and letters taped to the walls. Some lay on the floor beneath the table and others are spread across table tops. Most are happy pictures of houses, sunshine, and flowers with words labeling each item. Others are love letters to me, her brother, and her kindness elves.

She plays school in her playroom, and sits at the front of the classroom in her chair, reading to each student. And written in pencil on the wall beside her, is a list of all her student's names, so she doesn't forget who to call on.

At only 6 years old, it seems like she grew up overnight. She no longer watches cartoons or plays with action figures. These once beloved activities are replaced with watching tween shows like The Thundermans and Henry Danger, and teaching her class.

It seemed like when I closed my eyes to sleep one night, upon opening them, it all changed. I still see that little girl sitting among the stacks of books or her wobbly first steps. But, she no longer does. She sees a girl who talks about funny things her friends say at school, then when I ask about it, she says, "oh mom, you wouldn't get it." 

Over the years, I've grown so accustom to the familiar steps of each day. The routines of life that include my every need. But, now she's coming into her own and the process of independence aches my heart. I want to follow behind her, holding onto her every move. But I know, deep down, the best thing is to step back and allow her the room to proceed. 

But, in the darkness of the shadows where I lurk, I'm holding onto every stage that is happening before my eyes. I pay attention to all the details that surround our everyday. While, keeping a photographic memory log of our story. Like, how she lines up all her dolls and gently places sheets of school paper for each of them to work on. How she tells her class to always use kind words and how she never wants a student to feel unappreciated. 

I try to push away the reality that she is away from me, more than she's with me. So, I hold onto the moments where I feel whole. Like, these memories of her among the stacks of books. When, our days had no boundaries or time constraints. When we weren't caught between playing outside past dark or doing homework.

These days seem to move quicker than I can memorize them. Right when I become comfortable with a stage, it feels like it immediately changes. And the image that I held onto for so long has been replaced by something new.

But somehow, everything is still the same, and at the same time, everything is different.

However, I save up all these moments, adding them to the millions of others that are forever ingrained in my heart. And down the road, I'll come back to this very moment. 

Because, I always do.