…if you listen hard on a summer night, you can hear the corn grow.
Even after living in Kansas for three years, even after early summer nights out on the front porch watching the fireflies flicker in the darkness, a cold beer in my hand and M’s arm slung around my shoulders, I have never heard the corn grow.
But I swear to God: I should have been able to hear Linnea grow.
She’s always been tiny. Like in the bottom 10% for her age group. Until just recently, she was wearing clothing that was six months “younger” than she was. The other day, she was complaining that her toes hurt, so I took off her shoe and: she had blisters on her toes from where they rubbed against the end of her shoes. That should have been my first clue. We went out, bought her some new shoes. This morning, while trying to get her dressed for school, pants that fit the last time she wore them (like two weeks ago, tops) are now Urkel pants on her. Tops that were lose and tunic-y are now tight. It’s crazy. It’s her first official growth spurt–up to this point, her growth has been steady, but slow. After almost two years of “slow and steady” we’ve been totally caught off guard by the fact that God suddenly dosed her with some Miracle Grow.
Her arms and legs are long and smooth…no more sweet baby chunkiness. Her face is lengthening. She’s a little girl now. I beg your pardon: a big girl. 😉 She’s growing and learning so much!
The other day, we were sitting in the car waiting for M and she crawled into my lap in the front seat (we were waiting about a half hour). She said she wanted to “dwive”, so I scooched the seat back and let her go. Except that she grabbed the keys, chose the correct key, put it in the ignition, and promptly grabbed the windshield washer arm and threw it into what would have been drive if it had been the gear shift. Good Lord. She’s not even two. I bet by the time she’s three she’s stolen the car and gone joyriding. All she needs to do is figure out where the actual gear shift is, and that the key has to be turned in the ignition.
She’s not my baby anymore. She’s well on her way to being a grown-up, whether I’m ready for it or not. When I check on her at night before I go to bed, I marvel at how much she fills her crib now…before, she just filled maybe a quarter of it. Now it’s over half. The other half is filled with her dollbabies, monkeys, stuffed animals, various blankets and pillows that she canNOT be expected to sleep without. I rub her back and touch her head and think, “Slow down a little bit, OK? Not much. Just a little bit, for your poor mother who had no idea all this would go so fast.”