3.

I'm not really a speechless person. People who know me, know that I tend to over-talk. But here I am, staring at a blank page, wondering how to put into words how I feel when I look at my baby. My first. My now three-year-old. Sigh. Blank stare. Delete. Edit. Start again.

I took her to the park yesterday, on the eve of her turning a year older. M was running around in the grass, and L was in the swing. The big-girl swing. All long lean limbs and arms, hair a mess, head tilted back and eyes closed, happy as can be.

Higher, higher, she begged. And the higher she went and the farther away from me, she caught the fading sunlight in the sky. And I stopped to wonder where I was three years ago. Without her outside of me, but with her tucked away in me, ready to come out. Ready to take on her next adventure, her next challenge.

Higher, she says. She tests herself constantly. Tests her own limits, her boundaries, how things work, what makes things tick. She pushes and pulls at her world, refusing skirts and tights most of the time in favour of jeans hoodies and wellies, so that she can see what her universe is made of. She digs, she explores, she is unapologetic.

What happens at 3? Not much intellectually, really, as the ache for knowledge is always there and it's ferocious. New words constantly, new inflections. They're all little sponges at this age, it seems. But physiologically, the lines start to blur. Her baby face is softening and filling out in places and carving out in others. Her legs are starting to take a girlish shape, rather than a clumsy toddler's. She's much more insistant that she need her own space, her own decisions when it comes to anything creative.

Her tall and gangly-ness (thanks to parents who are both tall and gangly) makes her too big for the baby-swing. Too big for the constraints of the seat that protects her. She wants to be free. She wants the feeling of striking out on her own. She acknowledges her fear and swims through it to the other side.

Her language is so sophisticated now, and it accentuates her desires.

"No, Mamo. I would like to do it like this. No, like this- I want to do it myself, please."

When it's quiet in the house at night, her voice echoes in my ears, and it triggers both an ache and a pride. My baby, of course you can do it yourself. I'm so proud, I always say, as my eyes sting with tears and my throat has that familiar raspiness.

I wanted to capture her in the half-light yesterday in the swing, I wanted to photograph her in that moment- golden, laughing, still a baby in certain ways, but glinting of the future unfolding too quickly. But I chose not to, because in using my camera I would've missed it. I would've missed what the moment felt like, and I'm lucky that I took it all in for once- no other thoughts running through my head, no other agenda, just living in the moment. It was beautiful.

My baby, you will always be that little girl. My adventure-seeker. My fearless, loving creature that pushes me to be a participating witness to your magical life. I'm so very lucky.