There was a time when I was knee-deep in diaper changes, and then suddenly, she was fully potty trained. I fondly remember how I used to hold a bottle for her every night, yet now she confidently fills her own glass of water to place on her nightstand before bed. My once-soothing lullabies have transformed into playful banter, where she playfully corrects my “wrong words” with a giggle, exclaiming, “Mom! You’re singing it wrong!”
Mornings used to be a delightful struggle as I tried to fit her adorable chubby limbs into cute outfits, but now she insists on choosing her clothes herself. Each morning, she dresses independently, leaving me in awe of her growing autonomy. I fondly recall packing her lunches and then meeting her in the bathroom to style her hair—braiding, ponytails, and all the little rituals we shared. Now, she expertly manages her hair all by herself.
Before school, I would tie her shoes, and she’d give me that sad little pout, signaling her reluctance to leave me for the day. But now, I hear a flurry of footsteps and an exuberant “Bye Mom! Love you!” as she dashes out the door, leaving me in a quiet house that was once filled with her laughter. I always rush to the door, calling her back for one last kiss.
As I kneel down for a hug, she squeezes me tightly, her small hands still soft and innocent. She presses her nose against mine and says, “I love your squishy face!”—a phrase I’ve lovingly used since she was born. I listen to her joyful chatter fade away until I can’t hear her anymore. Some mornings, I stand alone at the door, reflecting on how time has flown by so quickly, just as everyone warned it would.
Piece by piece, many of my “mom duties” have been taken away, not because I’ve failed, but because she’s blossoming into her own person. This morning marked her fourth consecutive day of doing her hair without my help, and I felt a bittersweet pang in my heart. She’s no longer my little baby; she doesn’t rely on me in the same way.
I’m not quite sure when this shift occurred, but I do know that it has hit me recently. The small tasks that once felt so tedious now leave me a bit melancholic that she no longer seeks my assistance. In just two weeks, she’ll turn eight. How did that happen?
Last night, I checked on her while she slept. I saw my almost-eight-year-old girl, peacefully resting with her beloved puppy—the one she can’t sleep without—snuggled under her arm. For a fleeting moment, I caught a glimpse of my baby again. Everything about her seemed so small: her delicate features and tender expressions. I traced her face in my mind and whispered a prayer to never forget that moment.
It’s as if I woke up one day and found her transformed into a “big kid.” If you’re a parent, you understand that feeling—when your baby evolves into a toddler, your toddler becomes a little kid, and eventually, your little kid grows into a big kid. This cycle continues, leading to preteens, teens, and ultimately adulthood—each phase is a mix of joy and sorrow.
We all experience that particular moment when we realize our children can manage some tasks independently. It’s the moment we recognize that we’ve nurtured their independence. I had no idea how profoundly that realization would affect me. So as I sat beside her sleeping figure, snapping a dimly lit photo to capture the memory, tears streamed down my face. She will always be my baby. While I cherish watching her grow, each year brings us further from her infancy, and a part of me feels both grateful and heartbroken as she becomes more independent.
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In summary, witnessing my little one grow into her own person has been a whirlwind of emotions. From babyhood to independence, each milestone stirs a mix of pride and nostalgia. I embrace this journey, cherishing every moment, even as I come to terms with the bittersweet nature of time.