One Christmas, I made flannel nightgowns for my four daughters. They were stair-step sizes, the oldest 9, the next 7, then 5, and the youngest 3. The girls loved them and wore them every night. On cold winter mornings, they sat on the heater vents on the floor, waiting for the heater to blow and puff their gowns into little balloons of warmth.

I had chosen an easy pattern, without any buttons or buttonholes, so the neck openings were a little big. On my littlest girl in particular, one side would always slip, falling off her shoulder.

When that littlest girl was 16, the sister closest to her age moved out to go to college. She claimed the newly-vacated room, which had more space and light. Cleaning out the cast-offs she left behind when she changed rooms, I found that little pink nightgown, wadded up in the back of her closet.

I held it up, hem to the floor, trying to picture that little girl, tugging at her pjs to cover up her tiny, soft shoulder. How could she have been so little, this woman-girl with attitude and plans big enough to fill the house? In my heart she’s still that little girl, even when my mind loses track of her in that  grown-up person standing in front of me. This time the nightgown is gift to me, a tangible memory.

I know you’ve heard it so many times–how fast they grow up. We older moms say it because we still can’t believe it. We hope maybe you can learn from our experience,  and make time keep it’s boundaries better, keep it from rushing ahead so fast.