22 "pinches" of love

Faith will be turning 6 this week. With every day, she's becoming more sure of herself and less the little girl who needed us for everything. While birthdays are happy times, it's a little melancholy for me. In the delivery room as the doctor first said, "It's a girl," I feared the angst that often occurs between mother and daughter. I know the day is coming when we will be at odds over her friends, clothing and curfews. We've already done battle over some little things, so I know the first all-out war can't be far off. I'm also lamenting the loss of the cute little jumbled words that she said while getting a grip on language. She's reading now and soon will be adding new words faster than she outgrows her pants. So it was refreshing the other day when she sought my advice on whether her baby doll needed milk or orange juice. "Milk," I said definitively. "She's too little for orange juice." Faith disappeared and came back and proudly declaring that the baby was "18 feet" long. "That's inches," I corrected her from the next room. "OK, she's 18-pinches," Faith said. I clarified the pronounciation as I chuckled to myself. "That's still too little," I told her. "You were 22-inches long when you were born." How cute, I thought as I had a mental picture of her at "22 pinches." I could see myself lovingly pinching her from head to toe on her soft baby skin. Kind of like the way your aunt grabs your cheek, but nicer.
My baby is almost 6. The first trimester of parenting is over. Let's coast through until 12 when things will get hairy again for the final six years until she's 18. Somebody pinch me.
--Liz Fabian