Our Big Girl

Reagan is potty trained. Have I mentioned this? If not, consider yourself lucky. I tell everyone I meet including the woman who cleaned my teeth today at the dentist's office. A potty trained child is right up there with TCBY yogurt and a best friend to share it with (one who encourages you to buy the larger size and does not judge you when you consume it in record time).

Reagan began her training on a Sunday and by Thursday was accident free. She now goes in and out of the bathroom without accompaniment and just reports her business casually as she returns to play. Sometimes I don't even know she's gone.

Even as I celebrate this freedom, this fabulous ick-free state...I stop to wonder where the time has gone. Where is that baby who couldn't crawl, who wore size 2 diapers and clung so tightly to me as we left the Hunan Province Civil Affairs office? She's 14 pounds ago. She's four sizes in clothes ago. She's a hop, skip and a somersault ago. She's gone.

But then just when my eyes fill with tears and I can't stand how much I miss my baby, my big girl comes running over with her arms in the air. "Hold me, Mommy! Hold me." And I do.

Maybe our big girl is still our baby after all.