Our baby girl is six months old today.
When she was a fresh little newborn (with the sweetest smelling head) I was in a store and spotted a cute outfit that was sizes 6-9 months.
"Wow," I thought, "I want to get this for her, but six months is ages away."
I didn't buy the outfit because it seemed to me she'd never grow into it. Six months. Impossible. Light years from now. But now here we are, six months to the day and our girl isn't a newborn, but a baby who is exerting her own unique personality and who has learned to give kisses.
And who is starting solids.
And who is learning to sit up.
And who likes to kick her socks off.
And who giggles like mad when I toss her in the air or when her daddy zooms her through the apartment on airplane rides.
Wasn't I just lying in my hospital bed with my little baby snuggled on my chest? I swear I was, because I remember everything about that day in exact detail. Like yesterday. Or, I guess, six months of yesterdays.
I guess cliches exist because there is no truer way to express something: time is flying. But it's also soaring, and twirling, and looping, and making me dizzy from being this drunk on love and wonder.
What an excellent ride.
Happy, happy, happy six months, baby girl!