I'm Going to Miss Her So Much

I lie down with her and gently comb my fingers through her hair, just washed and slightly damp, smelling like children's strawberry shampoo.

She points out all of the things she sees in the dark. Colored pictures hung on her door, a butterfwy, her music box. She tells me about her day. Her high was playing outside. She didn't have a low.

I ask Veronica if she remembers when I slept with her last year at Disneyland. She says she does. She says she thought it was a dream.


There is something about that little girl that wrenches my heartstrings like no other. Perhaps it is that my sons have grown past those little kid moments, and she reminds me of the time that has past and how quickly it goes.

Water through my hands. I close my fists to hold tighter, and the water only spills out faster, leaving me wet with tears for the memory of it.

It was a good day. At her request, she and I made popovers for breakfast. We read some of Aesop's fables together. She made some of the apostles out of popsicle sticks.

While she listened to an audiobook this afternoon, I worked on lesson planning, picking out curriculum and creating schedules and binders for the next school year.

Next school year. Her kindergarten year. Kindergarten.

I remember my shock when she came into the world and the doctor announced, "It's a girl!"

I cried. Jason cried. My mom cried. My dear friend Jenny cried. The nurses cried.

I could. not. believe. it.

From then on, it has been a constant reminder of my own childhood. Pink. Dresses. Dolls. Playing army with brothers. Bubbles. Coloring. Giggling. Skipping. Dancing.

The excruciating pain of parenthood is seeing yourself and your own childhood within your sons and daughters, feeling how long ago it was, experiencing the joys and wonder of childhood more fully and deeply than you EVER did then and then

knowing it will all go away.

Too fast.

Way too fast. 

Dolls will turn to nail polish.

Aesop's fables will turn to magazines.

Tutus will turn into skirts that are too short.

And my dear, five-year-old,  sweet, little best friend who I get to spend time with every single day will be gone.

Perhaps she will marry. Perhaps she will have her own babies. Who knows what God has in store for her. I can't wait to see.

But she will not be here to hold my hand and giggle and draw pictures of me as a queen and lick the spoon and admire me with undeserved admiration and sing and dance and twirl and show me the fun and beauty and dazzle of life.

I will miss her so very, very much.

My only comfort is to recall these moments of nostalgia and deep love and emotion, and

Savor these moments. 

Cherish them. 

Relish in them. 

Create more of them. 

We never know how many of them we will have, and the ones we get never seem enough,

more drops cascading over the falls, 

out of reach, 

                                                  into the depths

of memory.