I've been feeling this way for seven years, give or take a few days when I either felt that I had my act together entirely (I am mother. Hear me roar!) or when I crashed into a deep abyss convinced that I've irrevocably scarred her for life with some horrifying combination of my impatience, my anger management failings, my forgetfulness as a Tooth Fairy, too many chicken nuggets, too much television, and one bad haircut when I trimmed her bangs to roughly one centimeter in length.
Despite all of this, she's turning out just fine.
Not just fine -- amazing.
Last night I tucked her into bed -- her last ever tuck-in as a six-year-old -- and I laid down beside her. I told her about the first moment I laid eyes on her: how I knew that she was amazing then, and how seven years later I continue to be utterly convinced of the very same thing.
They steal your hearts, these kids. You're never the same. For seven years, I've been entirely undone.