My baby girl started walking today. She is eleven months and one day old. Her daddy and I were both there to see it. She took three shaky, uncertain steps toward me (and a toy that she wanted), and then fell into me.
I can’t stop looking at her feet. Her tiny, baby feet that are already at least twice the size they were when she was born. Her feet that grew in my belly, starting out no bigger than a pinpoint. Those tiny toes that I marveled at the night she was born.
I can’t stop thinking about where those feet might take her. Those same feet that wore tiny knit booties and kick with amazing strength when she sleeps with us. Those feet will take her to day care in the fall. And to kindergarten. And grade school. Through classrooms that smell like crayons and rubber erasers. Through those first, precious friendships.
My daughter’s feet will take her to junior high and, eventually, high school. Through awkward, angsty adolescence. To football games and school dances. To first kisses. To decisions about who she is and who she will become.
It is amazing that her baby feet will be the same ones that carry her through life. My daughter’s tiny toes are a bittersweet reminder of what is coming down the path. Childhood. Adolescence. Adulthood. While I am so happy for her and the “big girl” she’s growing into, a small, melancholy part of me aches to see my baby grow so fast.