A Moment
Every season when I wash and fold and lay away the girls clothes, I feel a wave of sadness.
My baby is growing. My little girl is getting taller and bigger.
The baby's little pink bathing suit, the lacy summer dresses, the matching ones that they will not wear together again, the colorful little outfits and shorts -- I lay them in the bin sighing at how big my baby is becoming, taking her first shaky steps and eating "big girl" food; how my little girl who once wore this tiny clothes too is now counting, getting herself dressed, and going to the Atrium.
I think how another season has passed and a new one is at hand and of how I can not even guess how much I will miss this time someday down the road.
I shall not pass this way again . . . not with these little ones . . . not this time . . .
My baby is growing. My little girl is getting taller and bigger.
The baby's little pink bathing suit, the lacy summer dresses, the matching ones that they will not wear together again, the colorful little outfits and shorts -- I lay them in the bin sighing at how big my baby is becoming, taking her first shaky steps and eating "big girl" food; how my little girl who once wore this tiny clothes too is now counting, getting herself dressed, and going to the Atrium.
I think how another season has passed and a new one is at hand and of how I can not even guess how much I will miss this time someday down the road.
I shall not pass this way again . . . not with these little ones . . . not this time . . .
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