Middle Child is twelve. The last of her tween years is now numbered in months. That seems short, but will likely feel far shorter on the other side. Time passes more quickly in the rear view mirror than seems possible when one looks out over the sometimes long stretches of road ahead. Those first months certainly felt endless as the series of ten p.m. and four a.m. feedings made every night's rest just short of satisfying. Yet they are far behind in the blink of a mother's eye.
Kate's baby book features an addition that she holds especially dear. In the pages (acid and lignin free!) of her album (archival quality!) a series of notes were penned (photo-safe ink!) to cross the gulf of time and speak to her from the perspective of a mother utterly captivated by the tiny new daughter who was unlikely to remember the words whispered and cooed to her in those late nights and early mornings. Not likely to win any awards, the words are hand-written. They flow through the thoughts of young motherhood, across the small milestones that mark a little one's development, and they are treasured by a girl verging on the first bloom of womanhood. Those words intended to communicate the love of a mother for her infant have bridged the widening gap between a mother and her increasingly independent tween.
And the daughter has requested more of such simple declarations. Which she will have--- written secretly in the coming months in a lovely journal. And presented on her thirteenth birthday.