I had just finished singing her “Catch a Falling Star.”
She turned around and asked “Mom, can people touch stars?”
My first instinct was to say no. Burning balls of gas, millions of years away.
“Of course you can.”
“Are they like light bulbs?”
Again, burning balls of gas millions of years away ran through my head.
“They’re like shiny piles of glitter.”
She giggled, found my hand, laced her little chubby fingers in mine and snuggled close.
I buried my nose into that magical spot on her neck, surrounded by freshly washed curls.
I breathed her in.
Being a mom is hard.
At this moment the thought of her little body growing 11 hours older two rooms away from me is exquisitely painful.
In the morning she will be 11 hours closer to 6.
11 hours closer to her first day of Kindergarten.
11 hours closer to her first date.
11 hours closer to not needing me.
This is going too fast.