Over the course of the summer, I have slowly come to terms with the fact that, indeed, this is it: we will not have any more little babies in our house. And I've become okay with the idea. I'm happy with our family, even though I will never again hold my own newborn child in my arms and smell her little head as I nuzzle her fuzzy head with my chin. But that's okay. Because I have my little girl, Maïa, and my baby, Solanne, to keep me more than content. Happy. Delighted, in fact.
And today, as I walked home with Solanne, who was running ahead of me, I saw the little girl she has become. She doesn't toddle when she runs: she runs. And she's suddenly longer and leaner, and she's lost her toddler belly. Her little arm rolls have been replaced by lithe, muscular lines. And she has all these ideas, and she can express them surprisingly well. So she's not my baby anymore. She's my little girl. And I ask myself, when did that happen?
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