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Yesterday my baby girl


turned six.



I am so old. So old it's not even funny. And you know what's scary? I'm not even that old. I've still got to spend a lot of years getting older and older and older.

Narcissism anyone?

Sweet Ada Brooks has had such a great first six years. She is bright, beautiful and generally well behaved. She also has her flaws. Like being overly emotional. If her socks are the wrong color, she might just sob. And that ain't good. But we work on it, and it gets better. Right?

Six whole years?

Really? Yesterday she was just turning One. I swear.



I've been actively engaged in mothering for six years? Really? She was just two!



She's going to leave me in only twelve more? She was just three!



I may not make it. Really. Aren't you really only Four, Ada Brooks?


At least stay Five?



And then, as if that wasn't enough to have me on my knees, begging for mercy.

My baby boy turns one today. As in, I no longer have a baby at my house. Well, I guess he's kind of a baby. But not the same.




He's one. One. He is the sweetest baby of all time (and I don't think I'm being that biased. I mean, obviously I am, but other people say it too.) He has no hair. Literally none.
See for yourself.



But, that's okay. Neither did his sister, and now she has perfectly good hair.

Yes, Eason feels left out. He's pitching fits left and right and a second ago told me that he didn't care about their birthdays. Middle child syndrome times seven. Oh well. Life isn't fair. And I've reminded him that we celebrated his birthday for like ten days straight.

But that was in March. Not June.

Blah on his face. But, we forgive him because he's so fun and cute and three.

I'm glad I'm not giving birth tomorrow.

I'm so very thankful that God has blessed us with six years of beautiful, healthy children.

And now I'm off to try not to kill them. All.