God help me.

I remember carting my sweet baby girl to the pediatrician when she was a mere 2 months old. I just knew she was teething and I was a first time mommy and I thought my (ok, her) pediatrician needed to know this so he could record it in the all important chart. Right. He laughed at me and told me that Grace wouldn't be teething for another 2-3 months and that it was quite possible that she was just fussy or might even have one of those God-forsaken gas bubbles. He also told me, quite sternly if we're being honest, that I needed to understand that WE were not going to be decoding every cry. I hope I never learn what he wrote in her chart ("crazy mother" likely) but it didn't matter, a few days later she got that first tooth. And then another. And then 3 more. I was certain that these early developments were a sign of brilliance. I mean, seriously, I had checked out her friends and they were busy staring at ceiling fans. Not my girl, she was making teeth! I remember holding her on my lap and admiring her pearly gifts. I knew then that I was going to cry the day they fell out, especially those front two. It is no secret that I love the baby years. I loved jarred food and burp cloths and diapers (the smell of a fresh pack of Pampers still ranks high on my list). I cried when I folded the onesies for the last time. My mom always warned me that these days would go by faster than any other and she is just so right. About everything. But that is a different post. So anyway, this was the week. We lost the first front tooth on Sunday. The second is hanging by a thread. And I wish that wasn't such an accurate description. I know this is the last night she'll have that tooth. Her little smile will be replaced with a toothless grin. And I'm sure I will love it. She is still, thank God, my sweet girl.