Today, Piper, you are a ballerina, and I want to study and to preserve you from head to toe.  You’ve gotten so tall lately that I can’t find my baby in your long limbs. I want to remember how you nuzzle your nose against my neck like a kitten. I’m going to watch you dance with your miniature pot belly poking at the edge of your tutu. So what if your shoes are on the wrong feet? You put them on yourself.  Your knees and elbows are scattered with scars and bruises.  You play hard, P.  It’s one of the things I love so much about your spirit.  Remember to always play hard and be brave, even if it means sometimes you’ll get hurt.  Even your heart will heal.  I promise. You told me this afternoon that you don’t ever want to grow up.  I’d stop time, too, kiddo, if I could just to keep you exactly like this:

But I can’t.  Not even for you, Piper. We’ll both just have to remember today when you were a ballerina and hold on tight for the ride. White knuckles and all.