slow miracles are the only kind that will last

I'll probably never win a "Mother-of-the-Year" award, getting a weepy spot on Oprah for the world to see and cry along with. Most likely there won't be any articles in the paper about my amazing feats as a Mom, and how best to emulate me. When people think of the "greats", it'll be Susannah Wesley who comes to mind, not the SlaughterHouse lady. And no one will be writing memoirs with me as the centerpiece, moving readers with tales of self-sacrifice and generosity. But sometimes the little stuff is ok too. Sometimes the miniature hands that squeeze your face and the legs that stretch on tip-toe just for a sweet kiss is enough. And it needs to be enough. Those little things are my miracles that take me from "I can NOT do this and when can I quit?" all the way to "what will I do when she's gone?". One day she won't need those tip-toes to reach me, and probably won't care to leave her slobbery kisses on my face. Dinnertime will come and go without a declaration that "I need a hug RIGHT NOW!". And requests for a bedtime song will be only memories. Thirty pounds fit quite neatly in my lap right now, curled up for family movie night, but ten years from now she'll need her own space. Will she still curl her hair around her fingers while she sleeps? How about when we are whispering...will she still demand that we "speak Engwish!" I can live without the hair-curling and the lack of her in my lap. I can live without slobbery kisses and frequent bursts of song. But I need to know that she's always mine. I guess I'll have to share her. And probably that's the way I'd want it if I'm honest. But right now I'm not feeling as honest as I am overwhelmed that her years will slip quickly through our home and into her own. But baby Carrie will always have a home here, the place she knew first.

Happy Birthday Sunshine!