Today went by too fast. Everyday, too fast. She flies by, a blur of laughter and shrieks and words that are words and words that aren’t quite words. This morning, she woke up, same way she always does, but she had a secret: she was different today, smarter, more knowing. She waited until we’d had breakfast, to share her secret with me. Pointing at me, saying “Mama”. Pointing at herself, no longer “me”, but “Dyn”. Dylan. She said her name. Dyn. Her version of the name we gave her. Dyn. Dylan. Everyday is too fast, she’s growing up too fast. I’ve only had her for 15 months, she’s only been here for 15 months, and already, I’m trying to catch up, hold on, slow her down. Will it always be this fast? Will I always be watching her back retreating as she gets farther and farther away from being my baby?

I wonder what secret she’ll share with me tomorrow. I do not want to know. But I cannot wait to find out. It goes too fast.

(This post was written as part of Just Write, a weekly writing exercise started by Heather of The Extraordinary Ordinary. Sometimes, we need to slow down, and Just Write.)