Page 7 of Snowy Secrets

Fast forward a few years, and the scene was drastically different.

A small hand grips a plastic sword, its tip aimed menacingly at my shin. "En garde, Mommy!" Ginny declares, her eyes flashing with mischievous delight. I parry her attack with a spatula, feigning a dramatic defeat. She dissolves into giggles, her chubby cheeks flushed with triumph.

I think about yesterday, when I was summoned to a tea party, but my attire is deemed "not fancy enough" by the pint-sized hostess. I had endured a withering look and a dramatic eye roll before being granted entry, my hastily donned feather boa apparently meeting her exacting standards.

I wouldn't trade these moments for anything. The messy chaos of those early months may have been a trial by fire, but it forged a bond with my daughter that is unbreakable. And the truth is, even with the sleepless nights and endless worry, I'd do it all again in a heartbeat. Because seeing Ginny grow into the feisty, independent little girl she is today makes every challenge, every tear, and every dirty diaper worth it.

"Pancakes are ready!" I announce, setting a plate in front of her with a flourish. Ginny digs in with gusto, blueberry syrup smearing her mouth. I join her, savoring the warm, fluffy pancakes, each bite a comfort.

After breakfast, it's time to get Ginny ready for school. She insists on dressing herself, picking out a mismatched outfit of a striped shirt and polka-dot leggings. "I can do it, Mama," she says firmly, her little face set with determination.

"Of course, sweetheart," I say, smiling at her fierce independence.

We walk hand-in-hand to the school, the city bustling around us. The energy of Spokane is a constant hum, but in this moment, it's just me and Ginny. At the school gate, she gives me a quick hug and a kiss. "Bye, Mama! Love you!"

"Love you too, Ginny. Have a great day!" I call after her, watching as she joins her friends.

Back home, the apartment feels quieter, emptier. I make my way to Ginny's nursery. Being in here somehow both hurts and heals me. The impact of time is so strong that it feels physical. Mother used to say time is a thief. I never understood until I became a mom myself.

I sigh and look around at the brightly colored walls. One of them has a whole fairytale depicted on it—something I worked on for days on end. I had people telling me this was a waste, that she'd outgrow this sooner than she learned to say "Mama". But hey, she still loves staring at the wall, and as long as she's a child, I'll let her have her childhood. We're going to a face-painting festival in a few months, too. I live for these things now that she's older.

I wander over to a little trunk and open it to pull out one of her old baby outfits, the soft fabric still carrying a hint of lavender scent. I press it to my face, breathing in deeply. I miss my baby, the tiny version of Ginny who needed meso completely. Now, she's asserting her independence with a ferocious intent, and while I know she still needs me, it's different now.

The doorbell rings, jolting me from my reverie. I open it to find Millie standing there, a big smile on her face and a bag in her hand. "Hey, Bella! Thought you might need some comfort food."

"Millie! You read my mind," I say, stepping aside to let her in.

We head to the kitchen, and she starts unpacking the bag. The aroma of melty cheese sandwiches and luxurious tomato soup fills the room, instantly lifting my spirits. "I made your favorite," Millie says, handing me a thermos of soup. "And a little extra cheese on the sandwiches, just the way you like them."

"You're the best," I say, taking a deep breath of the delicious smells. "Ginny's growing up so fast. I was just looking at her old baby clothes and feeling a bit nostalgic."

Millie gives me a sympathetic smile. "I know it's tough, but she's turning into an amazing little person. And she's got an amazing mom to thank for that."

We settle on the couch with our food, and I take a bite of my food. The cheese stretches, gooey and perfect, and I let out a happy sigh. "This is exactly what I needed."

Millie grins. "Remember that time we tried to make these in college and nearly set the kitchen on fire?"

I laugh, nearly choking on my soup. Millie had come up with this brilliant idea to toast bread using an iron—needless to say, it didnotgo well. "How could I forget? The smoke alarm went off, and we ended up ordering pizza instead."

We share stories and laughter, the cozy apartment filling with the comfort of Millie's presence. Post motherhood, I've found the world has become divided in two—what came before Ginny, and the time that is lit up by her existence. I've hada hard time empathizing with most people who live life child-free. Their egos are different, though not in a bad way. We're all like that before having children causes an entire shift in our perspective. Millie, though… he's one of the rare few friends who stuck around although I wasn't able to make plans, couldn't find the strength to get out of pajamas for days on end. I had sometimes called her at desperate hours, my clothes stained with breastmilk and infant spit-up, and begged her to watch my baby so I could take a shower. Fun times.

Millie leans back, a contented smile on her face. "Bella, you're doing a great job. Ginny's happy, healthy, and full of life. That's all you."

My eyes mist a little, and I nod gratefully. "Thanks, Millie. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Funny you should say that," she replies, standing up to wash her hands. When she returns, there's a conspiratorial smile on her lips that I'm not sure will work out well for me. "What?" I ask, eyeing her suspiciously. "What have you done?"

She raises her hands and flourishes them like a dramatic actress. "Must we always jump to conclusions?"

I frown decidedly. "Well, seeing that you're someone who thinks they can get the perfect melt cheese sandwiches with an iron and likes taking baths in cold water when it's snowing outside, I'll say yes. You're planning something."

Her eyes begin gleaming in an almost feline fashion. "You told me Ginny is going to your parents' next week, didn't you?"

Sigh.Ah, yes, the never-ending saga of the "Ginny Appreciation Society”, also known as my loving, but slightly overzealous parents. Don't get me wrong, I adore the fact that they're head over heels for their granddaughter (after Dad finally thawed out from his initial, my baby had a baby shock). But let's be honest, they're starting to make me feel like a neglected houseplant in the corner of their lives.

Mom has this adorable theory that Ginny is her karmic reward for raising a "hooligan" like me. Bless her heart, she means well, but sometimes I wonder if she secretly replaced my baby formula with Red Bull. Case in point—Ginny's been summoned for a week-long stay at Camp Grandma and Grandpa, while I, the actual mother, have received no such invitation. When I dared to point out this blatant injustice, Mom simply smiled and said, "Honey, you need some child-free time. Ginny needs to socialize with her elders. It's a win-win!"

I attempted a feeble protest, but Mom swiftly shut me down with a classic "stop and think" maneuver. And wouldn't you know it, she was right as usual, the infuriating woman. In the whirlwind of diapers, playdates, and pureed peas, I had completely neglected my own life. Work had become a distant memory, my social calendar was as empty as my pre-Ginny wine glass, and I'd started wearing pajamas as a fashion statement.

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