You see, Tuesday night was her fourth grade spring choir concert. It's all she had talked about for a week, but then came the news that she got a coveted speaking part. In fourth grade, reading a little slip of paper at the microphone is the same as winning $200 on that $1 scratch-off lottery ticket. She was beside herself.
She dressed in her coral Easter dress. I brushed her hair, and we decided to make a side swept bun and tuck a little silk flower with the rhinestone center into it. No bows. No glitter. That's when I noticed the little twinge, that little tug of her approaching 10th birthday, had grown into a full blown ache. My baby isn't a baby, anymore.
Outside during the five-minutes-before-we-have-to-be-there picture taking ritual, I could see her. A clear picture of the teenager to come showed up in the viewfinder. There weren't unruly, glitter crusted waves of hair. There was a side-swept, Grace Kelly style bun. Standing there, holding the hand of the youngest, it became a before and after picture. Big, beautiful preteen. Tall. In heels. Sparkling eyes. Absolutely stunning. One shoulder exposed. Next to her, the chubby cheeked, grubby two year old with hair matted with a mysterious chocolate substance.
I took a long, slow, deep breath. I managed to get through the performance. Later, in the dark of night, I discovered at least part of the reason that sleep continues to allude me. That deep ache of recognition that my days of snuggling next to her and of her wanting to watch late night ghost hunting shows with me, those days are slipping through my fingers faster than the warm water of her baby bubble baths.
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