We wonder how it could be possible that
this
could now be this?
We told the Hus-b yesterday that the nanny must have brought the wrong child home from the playground or someone must have sneaked into our home surreptitiously and switched babies on us because this child is clearly NOT my baby. This running, laughing, hysterical creature could not possibly be that dear, delicate little thing we brought home from the hospital. She smelled like sweetness and powder and milk; this kid smells like cheese crackers and sandbox. Our perfect newborn cried only when hungry or overtired; this dramatic creature sobs when I ask her to kindly not rip the pearl studs from mommy’s earlobes. Our baby delighted us when she uncrossed her eyes or grasped our fingers; this kid turns the pages of books, scales play structures by herself and speaks flipping Spanish.
We know deep down (and from the tracking device we had installed at birth) that she is the selfsame Little Lady. But the transformation from that sweet, tiny, pink-hued bundle into a (gulp) kid is something we’re having difficulty wrapping our brain around. It’s as if we’re now meeting an entirely different child, but unlike us, she doesn’t remember what she once was; she only knows where she’s headed. And given that she is generally headed towards the nearest electrical socket, steak knife or body of water, we’re pretty sure our little girl’s coming adventures are going to be big.
