Then she woke up this morning and she was eight. (She's clever that way.)
She's the child who broke me into motherhood -- the infant whose sleep schedule I obsessed over, the toddler whose tantrums I worried about, the kindergartener whose first step onto the school bus I celebrated and mourned.
And now she's the eight-year-old whose ability to do multiplication problems quickly in her head baffles me just as much as her inability to find her own shoes. She lobs tennis balls, cartwheels until she's dizzy, and whisks away from me on her scooter down the sidewalk.
She's the child who continues to break me into motherhood, just new stages of it. Stages like getting pierced ears or entering the store Justice in the mall.
She's a far cry from the infant who used to raise one fist in the air in a baby power salute.
And I'm a far cry from the concerned new mama who used to stand by the bassinette, traumatized by the length of time between her baby breaths.
How much we've both grown these past eight years.
Happy birthday, kiddo. I'm so glad that we've learned the ropes together.