Just Call Me Bob Carlisle

Today I taught Ella how to give butterfly kisses. She pretty much thought it was amazing... and ticklishly hilarious.

Tonight is also her third night in a row with no pepe. She's still asking for it occasionally in the mornings or in the car, but it's been days since she's seen a passy.

For some reason, this tiny rite of passage has made me extremely emotional. Looking at her sweet face, sleeping unplugged... she looks so old. I mean, not old, old, but so much like the "big girl" we keep calling her.

All the sudden, I want to put the brakes on.

Sure, I could deal with any given question being asked only once instead of thirty times. And a little more emotional control. But Billy probably wishes the same from me, so it's not guaranteed that age will curb these habits.

But as much as I long for her to start kindergarden, I'm also realizing that we don't get these days back. Dancing with "shakers" to Pandora. Turning somersaults with proud glee. Learning to put her face in the water. And talking constantly about the potty.

Watching her play with Daisy in the backyard alone the other day, she just kept making herself laugh. Throwing back her head and cackling with unencumbered joy.

Last week Maya came over early in the morning to catch a ride to school. I offered both girls banana, and Ella threw both hands in the air: "Yay! Nana!" Maya politely declined, but Ella didn't hear her.

As I handed Ella her banana, she asked, "Where Maya 'nana?"

"She said, 'No, thank you,'" I explained. Ella immediately retracted her hand.

"Do you want your banana?" I prodded.

"No, thank you."

All the sudden, she wasn't my baby. She was a kid, influenced by friends and reining in her enthusiasm.

Sometimes I want to put the brakes on.

Not when she's going limp on the sidewalk because I said she has to hold my hand to cross the street. Or when she's bawling and wailing because her shoe fell off in the car. And I can do without someone throwing folded laundry in the air.

Maybe that's why we're taking so long to potty train. We've moved out of the crib. She's riding in a booster seat. Pepe is gathering dust at the back of a drawer. It's her last piece of babyhood. (Not to mention, now that she takes it off herself, throws it in the trash, puts in the second leg and pulls it up, I'm finding myself less motivated to tackle panties.)

I am truly loving the kid that Ella is becoming. And toddlerhood is not necessarily my forte. But as much as I joke about my rush for her to grow up, I also stay up at night, writing blog posts and crying about how my baby is a big girl. And there's no going back...