A Letter From Miss Sas: They’re Not Babies Anymore

Y'all,

It hit me like a thousand bricks yesterday that my babies are not babies anymore. And I was not prepared.

My sister-in-law sent me a couple of old pictures she had found from back around 2014. In one, two of my kids were standing there in cowboy hats looking like they were fixin’ to take over the Wild West—or at least the living room.

Then she sent another one. One of my girls was sitting there with the fattest little baby legs, and all I could think was, “Look at those rolls!”

I miss those rolls.

I miss the little voices and the little feet. I even miss some of the noise, which is how you know time has messed with my memory because those children were loud.

But here is what got me.

One of those babies had made pancakes that morning, and they were actually good. Another one had made Amish peanut butter pie in jars for everybody. That child handed me a whole jar of peanut butter pie like I could be trusted to behave responsibly with it.

I could not.

Then one of them carried Mavis around the yard while I took pictures. Mavis is a chicken, although nobody has explained that to her. She prefers to be held, admired, and photographed like the Marvelous Ma’am she is.

Later, another one came home carrying the weight of a hard workday and a family obligation that needed somebody to show up.

And that was when those old pictures started hittin’ me all over again.

These were the babies who used to need me to cut up their pancakes. Now they’re making them.

They used to play together in the floor. Now they’re working, cooking, showing up for people, and sitting around talking about real life together.

They still laugh. They still get loud. They still aggravate one another with a level of skill that can only come from years of practice.

But the sounds have changed.

I knew they were gonna grow up. I’m not completely unreasonable. I just don’t think I understood that their growing up was gonna change my life, too.

Every time they step into something new, I have to figure out how to be their mama there.

And y'all, nobody warns you about that part.

One day, you’re wiping syrup off somebody’s face. Then you blink, and they’re handing you the pancakes while telling you about a day they had out in the world without you.

You’re proud. You’re grateful.

And you still want those baby legs back for about five minutes.

Maybe ten.

Then somebody starts hollerin’ from the other room, and you remember that not everything has changed.