My baby is 8.
In another eight she’ll be 16, a thought I’d rather not have ever again until it actually happens.
What is 8?
It’s posing with balloons, arranging Beanie Boo’s just so. It’s shrieking protests over cutting hair that’s a year overdue for a trim. It’s unicorn colors and headbands galor and her own hair brush. It’s brudda Eli photobombing her moment and gettin the what for.
It’s riding bikes and a solemn pinkie swear with Eli that she’ll let him win despite his notable lack of scooter skills. And next, slow, determined awkward zig zags on her bike so she trails behind and he actually does.
It’s tacos for dinner by pops and cheesecake for dessert that I bought at the store myself. It’s planning a little party for new friends from school and missing our old ones a lot. It’s bottomless mom guilt for letting 7 pass me by and dragging 7 across the country, which looks like a rock tumbler and new gear and a Crayola cornucopia.
Eight is already going by way to fast. I’m missing 7 and mourning 8 and it’s only been a day.
I can’t let 8 be like 7. I can’t let 8 slip away.
Eight is magic!