Yesterday our daughter turned five years old. It seems like just yesterday, I was holding her tiny little body against my chest. She was so very little, and I can still remember the surge of emotions that would go through me as I soaked in every little moment of her babyhood.
She loved to be held more than anything, and I’d spend the days with her on my back in my Ergo carrier. Vacuuming. Cooking. Washing dishes. It was me and my baby girl.
People often told me that I’d spoil her–that I shouldn’t carry her so much because then she’d get used to it. I didn’t care. I knew how quickly the time had passed with our son, and I wanted to hold her as long as I could.
And so I did. . . as long as I could.
But still, those days managed to fly right by. Our baby-wearing days have been long gone for quite some time, and that tiny baby is now 2/3 my size and almost too heavy for me to even lift up. Almost.
And so, every now and then, when she comes my way, and lifts her arms for me to carry her, I do. I struggle, and I only hold her for a short while, but I do.
Because I know that one day, one day soon, I will not be able to carry her any longer. I know that one day will be the last day I get to carry my baby girl.
So, I hold on tight with everything I’ve got, and I soak in every precious moment of her childhood. I carry it in my heart, and I thank God for it all.
Happy birthday to my sweet girl.