Happy Birthday, Peanut.

My oldest baby is 8.  

I did not ask for this.  I am not ready for this.  Please, stay small.
She is the one who made me Mommy.  She was the first.  It was a terrifying labor, but oh-so-worth-it.  I remember the doctor holding her up and showing her to me in a Simba-like, Lion King way. 

And me thinking, “Wow, she looks a little like a conehead, but at the same time the most captivatingly beautiful thing I have ever laid eyes on.” 

She just looked at me and blinked with fresh, wide eyes.  Never crying.  The doctor laid her across my chest.  The nurse kept poking her to get her to cry.  Please, don’t poke my sweet little peanut like that. 

But she was fine.  Content.  Perfect. 

And here we are.  8 years later. 

Please, make time stop now.

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