We just dropped our baby off at preschool this morning. She took her Dora "packpack" and her Tinkerbell lunchbox in hand, tugged my husband across the parking lot, and happily marched off to Mrs. McE's room.
Just like her brother, she practically shoved us out the door. High fives, hugs, kisses, then see ya.
Four years ago to the day, I was bemoaning the aches and pains of pregnancy; I was wishing she'd pop out and spare me misery. How on earth did she grow so fast? It's been a blur.
Her brother ran into his first grade room, hugged his teacher, and then went to hang up his backpack. I might as well not have showed up. I was a pack horse to carry school supplies, that's it.
Our eldest, all long and lanky and beautiful, raced up the steps to the level where the junior high is. She's a 7th grader. So not ready for this. It seems like just yesterday I was fighting with school administrators to have her skip a year. I wouldn't wish that back, because she's smart and witty and needs to be challenged academically. But she's so mature. So old.
They are still my babies, but they are so not my babies any more.