There simply isn’t a word in the English language heavy enough to describe how I feel about my baby turning 9 years old. Perhaps I should try to learn a new language to prepare myself for her turning 10 next year.

At any rate, I am not ready, and to be completely honest, I’d rather not face it happening again until the last moment.

As much as I’m wallowing in my own self pity and grief over my youngest baby growing up… I see so many beautiful things in her.

She’s feisty. In every sense of the word. However she’s also respectful, and listens to what we ask of her. She doesn’t always do it, but she always listens.

She’s bossy. It doesn’t always help her, and she deals with not getting along with some of the meaner girls in school. I see her shrink away from them and it pains me… because I know just how that feels, but I’m also proud that she’s her own person, and really spends time with other little girls that have great character and personality. She’s one of the “nice girls”. Which makes me so happy I could burst.

She puts ice cubes in her milk if it’s not cold enough. She could care less that it waters down her milk, it’s purely the temperature she’s concerned with.

She grinds her teeth so loud it wakes you up in the night. Literally. It reminds me of when I was married to her dad, and he used to grind his teeth. I nudge her  a little to get her to stop, and the next time we can, we’re going to get those rubber teeth guards. Yikes!

She leaves me little notes like this:

I’m so thankful for her and we’re so much alike sometimes it’s funny. We sorted through her baby clothes from the garage the other day and as we were almost done she came up and hugged me… and said:

“Mom… Thanks for making me so cute”. …