9 Lives


When your child turns 9,

you can’t remember–

details,

which once seemed so pertinent.

Life-altering, even:

nap times. poopy diapers. measurements.

When your child turns 9

you ache more

for what you have less of:

wet kisses, unadulterated snuggles,

lit-up eyes greeting your

Mere Presence.

When your child turns 9

you wonder if you could

ever run that fast,

throw balls that far,

complete long division

so quickly, confidently.

When your child turns 9

you can no longer make all the boo boos

go away.

You grow more fearful of her

longitude and latitude,

the lengths she will go to,

to butt you out of her business.

When your child turns 9

if you are very, very lucky,

you might catch a glimpse of her soul–

the true nature of her personality,

the beauty of her intellect,

the graciousness of her heart.

When your child turns 9,

you may finally begin to forgive

yourself for all the mistakes you made

at the beginning,

and all the mistakes you’ll

make ’til the end,

and enjoy her as much

as you both deserve.

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3 thoughts on “9 Lives

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