They handed her to me, still covered in the fluids of birth. She might have been an angel sent directly from heaven. 10 fingers. 10 toes. Two tiny, little ears. She was perfect in every way.
And somehow, eighteen years later, she’s all grown up. The time passed at once quickly and slowly: lazy days . . . lightning years. In a singularly long blink of an eye, her childhood is over and now, at least in the eyes of the law, she’s an adult.
She can buy cigarettes, cigars, and Nyquil. (Who knew that minors can’t purchase the night cold remedy?!) She can go to the doctor without a parent, can sign legal documents, and can even be tried for a felony.
And in addition to all these minor details, my baby will be going off to college in 8 months (but who’s counting?). I gaze at her with a keen awareness, the same tears today as when she went off to first grade. She is so capable and confident. Why is it that now I feel like the baby?
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