There is no baby there.
My child. My child turns 8 this week.
It’s just one year from 7, and yet, it’s so much more.
It’s halfway to 16.
It’s a piece of 18.
Knock it over, and it becomes the sign for infinity. It might as well be.
She’s older now than ever before. She gets embarrassed. She gets my jokes (some of them). She spits some back.
She spits out the seeds of fruit too; no more swallowing.
She’s a big girl now.
She’ll be 8.
It’s a Fibonacci number I read recently — although I wish I could say I remember that from math class. But she’s almost 8, and I can barely help with her math. She barely needs the help.
She could walk to post office alone (if I’d let go). She can ride a bike. Read chapter books. Make her own peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
She’s going to be 8.
She’s got her own taste in music now, and her own style of clothes. She’s got friends’ phone numbers memorized (but we’re still working on that darn zip code).
She gets phone calls. She gets mail.
She can read my mail — but she knows better.
She’ll be 8 this weekend. My big girl. My baby.
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