Slipping Through My Fingers

Tonight Hillary went on a date with a nice young man.  He was such a cute little boy in Kindergarten.  And now he's this tall, handsome thing.  As I watched him open the door for her to get in the car, I marveled at the fact that she is not my little girl any more.  It sort of seems like last week she would stroll around the cul-de-sac, chatting with her imaginary friend, Brittany.

Now it's real life.  Now, as she's growing up, everything we ever taught her, or tried to teach her, is going to pretty much matter.  It counts.  And that thought is a sobering one.

As I walked past her bedroom and glanced at the clothes on the floor as well as the homework and hairpins scattered about, I recalled the words of a favorite song.

Slipping through my fingers all the time
I try to capture every minute
The feeling in it
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Do I really see what's in her mind
Each time I think I'm close to knowing
She keeps on growing
Slipping through my fingers all the time. . .

As I wait with quickly drooping eyelids for the sight of her to come bursting through the door, I anticipate hearing all about her evening.  Her father, bless his snoozing heart, has a full day at the church tomorrow.  I encouraged him to get to bed.  I'm actually glad to have just a bit of girl's time. . .  Oh, I love my children.  I feel so blessed.

Ah!  I hear the front door opening. . .