These hormones are kicking my ass

One more kiss mama, she says as we walk into the playground of her school. I lean down and kiss her and she wraps her little arms around me. Mama, remember when I stayed home with you all the time, before I ever went to school? Yes, I do. Me too, she says. Some days I miss that. Some days I miss you mama. I miss you too love.

Dude this kid is going to be the death of me. Seriously, I watched her walk away, hitching up the waist of her skinny jeans and I just wanted to bawl. My baby girl is going to be seven years old in a few months. Seven. Do you understand how big that is? She's so helpful lately and trying so hard to be good; to not get in trouble for her attitude or for being rude or mean to her sister. Last night she told me she can't wait for me to have the baby; sat and told him that it was now time to be born, that she was done waiting. Patience is not a virtue she posses.

She talks about the next thing all the time. What will we do next weekend? Next summer? When I'm eight? When will I be old enough to wear makeup, old enough to drive, to date? When I answer, I can see her mentally write it in her head, like she's saving it on a calendar.

I want her to stay this age for a while longer. Six has been my favorite age of hers. I want her to be little enough to play in the bathtub with her sister, taking turns making mohawks on each other. To be little enough to be read too, even though she reads to herself perfectly well. Little enough to want to kiss and hug me as I drop her off at school.

I want her to stay my little Morgan bean sprout for a bit longer. To know that just because I'm having another baby, she is still my baby too. She doesn't need to grow up so quickly, because I'm okay with having three babies. Because no matter how old she gets, she will always be my first baby.