Blink of An Eye

The five-year-old comes out in just her Little Mermaid panties as I'm finishing up the dishes. "Can't find any pajamas?" I guess.

Any hope I have of her being impressed with my divine divination skills are shattered. "Well, Daddy," she says, and sighs slightly. "I can't find any pajama pants. Or pajama shorts. Either."

I can do nothing but shake my head. "Well, Daddy," she says. As if to say, "you see, it's like this."

When do they suddenly veer from being able to more or less deliver the information they want/express their needs and desires to this sophisticated, I'll-be-here-all-week style of conversation? Why, why, why do they keep growing up? Why do they keep getting older? It's so uncool.

Or would be if it weren't for the fact that, heartbreaking as each and every change is, signifying as it does the leaving behind of something wonderful, each new stage is pretty damn awesome too.

"Well, Daddy," she says, and I can hear the unspoken conclusion: "Enjoy me while you can. Because I'm leaving soon. Oh, it might not be for a dozen years, or maybe even, if you’re very very lucky,  twenty. But to you? It'll be the blink of an eye. So don't blink, or I'll be gone."

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