Today

“Don’t ever grow up!”

These words are lost on Miss Dub, even though I utter them at least thrice, if not quartice, each day.

OK, so she is only 11 weeks old … and nowhere near wearing short shorts and liking boys and all of those other tendencies that give mothers and fathers angst.

But she is growing. She’s in the 90th percentile for both height and weight. (Because we like to rank our children young in America. Nothing like categorizing them from the get-go.)

And she’s off the charts when it comes to smarts and cutes, although I can’t get my pediatrician to put that on the record. (And I have tried blackmail, but she’s fairly tame and not easily embarrassed.)

And while I’m thrilled to know that she’s progressing, I can’t help wishing I could freeze each moment in time in molasses so I could slowly savor them instead of letting it all rush by. Because I know that children grow up too fast. Every seasoned parent can attest to that.

I love her little hands and feet. I love her constant coos. I love her goofy wakeup face. I love her manageable diapers. I love her small, but strong spirit. I love her so much today that I can’t think about tomorrow.

Yet, when it comes to my own life, I often live in the future:

“I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“I’ll be happier when I am smarter/skinnier/better.”

“I just have to hang on until Saturday.”

But having my own baby reminds me that I was once someone else’s baby. And that she loved every day and stage of my life for what it was. That she didn’t live in my future, but shaped each day so that there was always a better tomorrow.

That she often chided me to slow down.

“Don’t ever grow up,” she would say.

So for her, I’m going to enjoy this day.