Her new polka-dot backpack is labeled with her name, filled with permission slips and waiting by the door. Her navy polo and plaid skirt are laid out neatly beside her knee socks and black Mary Janes. Every item from her school supply list is checked off and packed up by the door.

She is ready.

I’m sitting in the rocking chair in which I have carved out much of the past half decade looking over at a slumbering girl in curlers. There used to be a crib in that corner. She looked so tiny in that crib, my little babe. Now her long feet stretch out way beyond the mid-point of her twin bed.

Are mamas ever ready?

I remember when her first tooth started to push up on her gums. I was delighted to see her new tooth, yet so sad to say goodbye to that sweet gummy smile.

Isn’t that the way it is with parenting? At each step there is an exciting new development that leaves a loss in its wake.

How many times have I held her in my arms, looked into her sweet face and said, “Can you just stay like this forever?” And yet I can no more hold onto those moments than I can to the air she twirls through. So I tuck these memories in the folds of my heart.

Wasn’t it yesterday that I was nursing my cooing babe with the bluest eyes or scooping up my giggling one-year-old with outstretched arms? Wasn’t this morning filled with the why’s of wondering two-year-old or the constant testing of independent three-year-old? Didn’t I spend this afternoon in the fairytale spun by a four-year-old?

Who is this girl so long and lean, who can make me lunch and write me love notes? Whose curious theories and painted rainbows color my house. Whose elaborate plans and rosy stories fill my days.

I can hear rise and fall of her breathing. Each sound of her slumber is so familiar, my baby, my girl.

Tomorrow she will push through Mr. Kindergarten’s door. I will be sad to surrender my half-sized shadow, but I will be so proud of my bright, brave girl.