“I’m little and big,” she’ll often explain to us now, after our conversation weeks ago when we explained how, compared to Baby Baby, she’s big, but compared to us, she’s little.

And she is. Little and big.

Tonight, she came up with a line all her own as we drove in the car to a potluck at a friend’s house, far out in the country over bumpy roads, past dogs wandering unchecked, past tumble-down houses and dark patches of road.

“I will not be little again.”

It made me want to stop the car and hug her and keep her little – not little and big, just little – as long as my arms can wrap around her. Instead, we kept on driving, through small towns and past small-town churches and dilapidated buildings, driving in the dark, together.

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