Today Emma is 11 months old, which is the insignificant age before the big o-n-e. Like when you are 12, but just want to be 13 and an official teenager, or when you're 20, and are so close to being 21, but not quite. You know? This is very cliche of me, but I can not believe she is going to be 1. I'm having a little bit of a hard time with it. I actually teared up on Sunday in the park when I heard a family singing Happy Birthday, and I whispered Emma's name in place of the child's, and I had to control myself from breaking out in a full sob. (I am an emotional sappy person, but this goes above and beyond my norm.) I think it's just we are getting close to the day Emma was born, but to me it was the BEST day of my life. I love remembering the moment she was born and Bill and I looked at each other with tears in our eyes. (For the record, he also said, "She looks just like you!" but we all know that didn't last long.) And Emma has never had a birthday (obviously) and I think birthdays are so special and it's her first cake, candle, birthday song, presents, etc. It just all makes me all emotional, if I'm making any sense at all. I want her to get older, because she does something wonderful everyday (her new thing is giving random hugs, which makes us melt), but I already miss her being the little sleepy cuddly newborn. Every mother feels like this, right?
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