Frozen, with a nearly toothless grin,
curly hair,
sweet baby fat cheeks
mid-roll on the floor,
trying to get away from
a much younger me
blowing raspberries
on your belly.

"The next thing you know,"
they used to say,
"She'll be in school,
getting straight A's and
making friends."

"The next thing you know,"
your mom spoke to me,
"She'll be going to dances
and playing games,
she'll be graduating soon..."

"The next thing you know"
your grandparents warned,
"she'll be leaving,
one extra room
you never
really wanted."

The vacancy we anticipate
brings an odd
sadness,
earlier than we expected.

The next thing we know some boy will
profess
his love for you,
and likely will never
quite meet my expectations.
But, then, I'll remember
the grace
your mother's parents
showed me,
and I'll relent,
and allow your love
to be God's grace
for him.

And the next thing I know,
I will be surrounded by small ones
who look
just like you,
and him,
and I'll roll on the carpet,
blowing raspberries
into their bellies.