I sat there on the side of the tub, and I tested the water to make sure it was just right. I knew you didn’t like it hot, certainly not scalding like I enjoyed. With the shower curtain open halfway, and me perched on the bath’s edge, I engaged the shower to rinse off an afternoon full of sandbox play.
You backed into the warm spray, and I watched as you began to scrub the sand from your long, tan legs. I held an orange washcloth in my clinched hands, but it wasn’t needed. You were bathing yourself, and something about the whole ordeal caught me off guard.
Showers were for big girls, that’s what I thought, and it didn’t seem like that long ago that you feared them. Baths were for babies, and that’s what we always took together, me and you, my baby girl.
I wasn’t sure I was ready to accept my baby taking a shower, or washing herself, or especially saying, “It’s ok Momma, I can do it myself.” I was proud of you, but I never knew before that pride could make you want to cry. At least, I never knew it until I had you.
I just wasn’t sure how we’d handle you being a big girl. Would you still be my baby?
It had been coming for a while, little signs that you were moving farther and farther away from being the tiny bundle we brought home from the hospital. And that was fine. Even when you stopped being my toddler and starting growing tall, that was okay too.
When you got knuckles and lost your baby fat, I let it happen. After all, I had no choice, and I was okay.
But then one day you started using phrases like “well, actually mom,” and asking me, “are you being sarcastic?” You wanted to know answers, answers to real questions. You wanted to know what the word “pollinate” meant, and “justify,” and even “liquidate.” You were listening more, and I could see the wheels turning. And it scared me.
You started watching big kid cartoons, and growing bored with “baby shows.” You could sit through an entire movie, even in the theatre, without whining, falling asleep, or having to pee.
You wanted to paint your nails, and wear my make-up. You wanted to pick out your own clothes, and naturally, dress yourself. You could play by yourself outside, and as I watched you through the window I just couldn’t look away. Not for a minute. I was enamored by the girl I saw picking flowers. A girl, not a baby.
I thought I had accepted it, though, that I had come to a place of understanding that you were getting bigger, day by day, by day. But then something simple would happen like fearless showers and self-soaped rags, and then I’d be a mess. My heart would clinch in time with my fingers around an unused wash cloth, and I’d wonder, will you still be my baby?
You’d giggle as a spray of water hit your shoulder blades just right and ricocheted onto my sullen face, and then I would be smiling too. I’d be unable to prevent it. Something about your musical laughter was contagious to me.
I’d laugh and brush a stray smattering of suds from your forehead as we laughed together.
“You’re such a big girl. I’m so proud of you.” I meant the words even as my throat closed saying them.
And then, as if you could read my every thought by looking in my eyes, you said, “I’ll always be your baby.”
You turned back into the shower spray, so big, so independent. I’ll be honest, I had to refrain from scooping your wet body into my arms then.
“Yes you will baby. Yes you will.”
Jennifer says
Just going through this with my four year old daughter 🙂 and 🙁
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Bittersweet for sure!