Don't blink

Oh, my precious girl.

It's got to be one of the biggest cliches ever, and I probably heard it 100 times when I was pregnant with you: Don't blink. Everyone talked about how quickly the time would pass once I had a child, and I'd politely smile and nod. They warned me about One Day, that villain lurking in the wings, waiting to hurl milestones at us when we least expected it: "One day you'll wake up and realize she slept through the night." "One day you'll miss that gummy smile." "One day soon she'll be walking." Or starting kindergarten. Or driving. Or getting married.

Or turning five.

I said last year that four seemed like a momentous age, an age when you stepped definitively into the ranks of little-girlhood. So I'm not sure where five leaves you. (Or me.) All I know is that it too seems momentous, important ... older. Will all birthdays feel like this?

Don't blink.

I now do routine battles with the evil One Day. One day you rolled over. Sat up. Crawled. Took tentative first steps. One day I flipped the calendar to October 2005 and - realizing that you would soon be turning one - wondered how the year had passed so quickly. One day we turned your car seat around and gave you a new view on the world. One day you started talking, quickly to be followed by singing, reasoning, arguing, and bargaining. One day you sang the alphabet song perfectly. One day you potty trained (literally, in one day) and I was taken off guard at this huge step toward maturity. One day you started preschool. One day you spent a week at your grandparents' ... without us. One day you read your first word, and then your first whole book.

But One Day isn't all bad either; in fact, he's taught me some important lessons. Because one day I realized I would sacrifice anything, anything, for your life and protection. One day I struggled to breastfeed, thought of quitting, and discovered determination I didn't know I had. One day I missed those middle-of-the-night feedings - when I nursed you in the dark, staring out your window at the stars, feeling like you and I were the only ones in the world. One day I understood that being your mother was the only thing I knew with absolute certainty I was meant to do. One day I discovered that I didn't need to look to The Next Big Thing for happiness, that I was perfectly content with my life just as it was (and one day you'll know just how big this is).

One Day I looked down at the baby I was rocking and felt a swelling in my chest, a feeling so strong and powerful that I thought I might burst. One day I realized that I love you so much it hurts, so much that I surprise myself, so much that the mere thought of something happening to you can reduce me to tears. One day I discovered what it truly means to love even when it seems ugly and unrewarding ... without conditions, without strings.

One Day I became a mother. And One Day you turned five.

I'm trying not to blink.