My baby girl

Tylie was in her first dance competition on Saturday at Lagoon. In these moments, I find myself in an emotional quandary. I love to see my little girl dressed in lace, with a cascade of curls falling down her back, and a blush highlighting those beautiful cheek bones. I find myself fussing over every move she makes. I casually let her walk a few steps ahead of me just so I can see people's expression as she walks by. I am the epitome of a stage mom. And then the moment comes when she waltzes on that stage and takes her position. Tears well up in my eyes but, strangely enough, I find that these tears are not tears of pride. They are sad tears. All I can vision on that stage is a tiny little baby a very long time ago in her first lace dress. She is dressed all in white but this time she does not have enough hair to cascade down her back. No, she is my tiny baby. She is being gently cradled in her daddy's arms as he blesses her. I struggle to let her go. I tell her often that I don't want her to get any taller. She always reminds me that she has to be a mom and she has to grow up. She reminds me that grandma probably did not want me to grow up but I did anyway. That is how Heavenly Father wants it. So, with a deep breath and a loud sigh, I watch my baby light up the stage. Her daddy proudly records her every movement so we won't forget this moment. And I just cry. I don't think I am cut out to be a mom.