Lately, I find myself in a reflective state.  The Bean is turning one on Sunday, and I’m thrilled and depressed at the same time.  It has been the longest and the shortest year of my life, and I’m not sure that I’m ready for her to be a toddler.

I remember when she was 8 weeks old, and after a particularly trying day I told my husband that I wasn’t sure I could be a mom for 18 years – and more.  Today, I’m telling him that I wish she was still that itty bitty girl who would only sleep on my chest.  I’ve conveniently forgotten the aching breasts, the reflux that would keep us up throughout the night, the c-section recovery…all I remember now is the cuddly little thing that I could hold for hours on end.  

Don’t get me wrong – watching the Bean thrive has been the most fun I’ve ever had.  I love how her big personality has emerged from her little, already lanky body (where she got that body is a total mystery).  I am amazed at how her golden hair is now curling over the collar of her shirt, especially since her hair color was a total surprise to her two black-as-night haired parents.  I am beyond thrilled that she points to me and says “Mama!” with unbridled enthusiasm, and I revel in the fact that she is my baby, and will be even when she is a little girl, a teenager, and a grown woman.

Time does make much of the past seem glossy and in soft focus – I am fairly certain that none of us would have more children if it didn’t.  Time has helped me to understand what motherhood is all about, how magical this last year with the Bean has been, and how I was truly meant to be a mom – albeit a sarcastic, impatient one.   I only wish that it would slow down just a little, before the Bean turns into the fabulous grown up that I can already see in my mind’s eye.

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