Traces of Two

Summer is hurtling forward and birthdays have come and gone, with one more birthday remaining. Three more days until my little girl morphs from toddler to preschooler. This little one who used to be a blonde baldy with chubby thighs is becoming a petite little girl, so independent, so mature. Her grown-up vocabulary bubbling forth from her rosebud mouth; little pixie voice spouting out mature-sounding sentences.

Besides her little voice, I search her over for traces of her babyhood that once made up her whole being. Long lanky legs have taken the place of chubby creased ones. Mass of blonde hair hides the soft scalp that was visible for so long. Chubby little hands we once cheered on to grasp and hold now so capable, so strong. Where's the baby I once snuggled and smelled, nursed and slung?

Is she there in the trace of dimples at the elbow?

Or here, in the roundness of her cheek?

There's those sweet dimpled hands, a little less chubby, a lot more capable.

And here, in the babyness of wrong footed shoes.

Oh, little one, so sweet and tender, so stubborn and independent. I love you so much. I can't wait to see the beautiful woman you will one day become, but I'm content to relish in the baby that I can still see.