My daughter turned two years old today. 

We had a small gathering, as we have a small family: my parents, my aunt, my sister-in-law and three-year-old nephew, myself and a 91-years-young friend of my late grandmother.  My friend Glen came by later.  My friend Janice made a cake in the shape of a dog; my daughter loves dogs, but alas, Mommy is allergic.  My aunt made her much-lauded eggplant parmigiana, and set up all the food (and cleaned my house). My nephew helped my girl open her gifts, which she wasn’t too interested in doing.  She was just happy her cousin was there to play and color with her.  She wore a sweet hand-me-down dress from my friend Beth.  Nana brought many mylar balloons, much to the birthday girl’s delight.  It was a relaxed, warm, pretty happy little get-together.

Now that I’ve put her to bed, freshly bathed and exhausted from her nap-free, company-rich day, and I’ve reset the house to its original, but surely temporary, tidiness, I sit here alone with time to reflect on this landmark.  My daughter turned two years old today.

How did that happen?

Every mother on the planet will tell you “it goes by so fast,” and you nod and smile politely if you’re childless.  But I’m truly stunned.  I feel like I’m just settling in to being a mother in the first place; she was just born, wasn’t she?  I’m just hitting my stride.  I’ve got the routine in place, the ‘doing stuff one-handed’ thing down pat.  I’ve still got my pregnancy weight to lose.  And she’s TWO already?  Oy.

It seems that I’m the one who’s not handling the changes and transitions well.  She’s fine with them.  As I mentioned in a previous blog about re-entering the workforce, she’s been basically fine with the sudden change of my being out of the house 20 hours a week.  She never had a second of being freaked out in her toddler music or dance classes, being exposed to a dozen or so people her own size for the first time in her life.  She’s just this laid-back, accepting, friendly little person who rolls with it all.

I’m the one who feels like I’m sliding down an icy hill with no brakes.

And yes, I know that I’ll love all her ages and stages (for the most part, ha ha), and each has its own charm and developments to look forward to.  That sweet, tiny, helpless infant, that crawling, exploring baby, that bald-headed angel… she’s gone for good.  I’m sad, and I miss her.  I can finally see why so many people have a second child (and another, and another).  But I’m in my forties, and another baby probably isn’t on the docket for me.  I had to relish that baby-time with a desperate focus that sometimes bordered on panic.

I now have a walking (make that running), talking, sentient being on my hands now.  And I love her more than I knew I was capable of loving anyone.  We interact on a different level now.  She cracks me up.  She is paying, and demands, attention.  Every day there’s a new word or funny anecdote to put in my “Mommy Journal.”  It’s exciting to see her grow and learn and change, so amazingly fast.  But I see photos of my tiny newborn baby and it’s like, who is that?  Where’s my baby?  Who switched out my infant for this (albeit wonderful, adorable) toddler? 

My daughter turned two years old today.