The first eye roll. Oh my God, the first eyeroll.
8 years and 6 weeks. I’m marking it in the baby book—which would be the first entry since 2006 back when I noted the nine foods she ate (only slightly fewer than she eats now) and listed her new words month by month, actually adding them up and penciling in the number.
New moms oddly have time for such things.
I was not expecting this particular milestone quite so soon though. It was over the course of a debate with her sister on which game to play and which was a baby game and why an 8 year old couldn’t possibly play that game and…yeah. I told her they need to come up with a compromise and voila: Eyeroll.
Of course she denied it was an eyeroll. Or that she stomped her foot. Just the tiniest bit, as she walked away to set up a chess board by herself instead. And I told her good, it had better not be one, because that would be acting awfully like a teenager. And we’ll have none of them around here. Not at least for another 30 years or so. It’s hard enough to accept that she would rather memorize Taylor Swift lyrics than The Wheels on the Bus, and a mother can only handle so much at one time.
Isn’t she still a baby? A teeny little thing who eats sand and waves at fire hydrants and falls asleep on my chest?