Six.

You are six years old. And I will be forever thankful that I have known you outside of my womb for this long, that I have gotten the chance to watch the beginnings of your unique and dynamic journey, and that every single day our family has gained something special from you being in our lives.

You are six years old. And I love so much of what that means. The parts that make me smile with the confidence of knowing you are still a small child. The parts of being six that make me take a deep breath and just soak in the moments of your innocence.

You are six years old. And I hesitantly accept the parts that I do not completely love. The parts that make me look at your daddy with trepidation in the middle of one of your stories or questions. The facets of this age, of this growing up, that make me wince and tense up and struggle with letting you go.

I know that you are only six. I see the way your face brightens when you point at a full moon or the proud smile when you read a book all on your own. I cling tightly to your drawn rainbows that take up page after page after page, where there is no room for clouds or rain. You still look forward to staying up past your bedtime playing games on a Friday night and snuggling late into Saturday morning. You giggle at silly words and tickle and chase each other, flying through the house and around every corner until you collapse into a pile of laughter and squeals. You still consider each other your best friend, and you whisper secrets to each other before bedroom and spontaneously hug. You think mommy and daddy are “so much fun” and love bedtime “kissies” and cuddles. You feel that running errands is an adventure, painting on the deck is a luxury, and getting your very own pile of adhesive foam crafts is one of the greatest gifts that could be given.  Your wonder and curiosity motivate you to live life with your sparkling eyes wide open.

But I know that you are already six. The pride in which you step off the school bus, always looking back at your sister to make sure she is close behind, is a newer development of your maturing character. The confusion you felt when a boy called you “fat” or the hurt that you experienced when your friend refused to play with you “just because”, those moments remind me of your age.  The tears you shed at your inability to protect a peer being ridiculed on the bus force me to face the way life is changing. I see the way you analyze how women present themselves and why, as you already stare at yourself in the mirror for minutes at a time.  Your knowledge of vocabulary has expanded to include words that have been hurled at you by other children, words that are not allowed to be spoken in our house about another human being.  I have heard the conversations the two of you share about someone’s appearance or intelligence or whether they are “good” in whatever your favorite field may be for that day.  Your ability to pray, with true compassion and empathy, for the healing of a child whom you have never met. The two of you speaking about some of the tragedies that occur in this present world, and the knowledge you seek to avoid each one prove your age. The interest you have in heaven and the absence of kindness here on earth, these pieces of your experience convince me of your budding age.   

You are six years old.  Every year you give me a new number to analyze and to mull over, another 365 or so days to find joy in and to question and to protect. Whether as a slow crawl or as a sprint, I know that change is making its presence known. More than ever before. But not more than it ever will.

You are beautiful and intelligent and witty. You have noticed, more than ever, how people react to your physical beauty, and you have begun to take pride in the way your curly hair bounces, the deep and rich brown tones of your skin, and the length of your black curtain of lashes. This scares me. I want, so badly, to remind you that outward beauty is not an achievement, and that what truly should be noticed are your qualities and humanity.

You are confident and inquisitive and daring.  You are both leaders in your own right, and it seems that the world has begun to see the complexities of your personality and your interests. I want to keep you from exploring beyond what I am comfortable with, and I want to shield you from the pain that being daring can sometimes bring. But I know that you have much to experience. On your own.

You are six years old. You are growing and questioning and challenging. You are finding strength from sources you have never had to before, and you are pushing back against the many powers that try to change you in the wrong ways and for the wrong reasons. Continue to find strength and push back.

You are six years old and transforming somehow. You are rapidly marching into new phases. 

But you are still a small child. 

And you will always be my babies.

For six years now, and forever.