I’ve been worried about it for over a year now. I’ve read segments in several books on ideas about how to do it. I’ve had endless conversations with my mommy friends about their experiences. I’ve talked with professionals.

I’ve even prayed about it.

And then last night, just before I was ready to tuck her in and say goodnight she very clearly and precisely said “Mommy, I don’t want to use my paci anymore. It has hair on it.”

Seeing as how we’ve had false starts in the past, my response was not the gushing of “What a big girl you are!!” followed by an immediate trip to the trashcan that you might expect. Besides, where was the screaming and gnashing of teeth that I’ve heard tell about? Where were the tricks? The “lets tie paci to a balloon string for the babies in the sky”? The paci fairy? The sleepless nights? The bribes and promises of rewards to come?

Instead, I looked at her with raised eyebrows and said, “Well, are you sure?” And she responded that yes, she was sure…and she took her lovey that I handed to her and happily sent me away, paci in hand, dumbfounded.

That was last night. And today, with a little bit of prodding and a lot of cuddling, her sister decided to do the same thing. Tearful yet determined. I can relate.

Because I am finding myself to be strangely tearful over the decision my girls have made. As freeing as it is for me, I just wonder how can these little girls be old enough to make a decision like this? To me, it’s just a paci. But to them, its a friend. A comfort. A companion in the night. Where is the motivation to give that up (besides the polly pocket cars I got them at Target)?

And just like that, this day that marks 6 years of marriage between John and I and the anniversary of my Grandpa’s death has also become the day that our twin girls grow up a little bit more…and teach their mommy a thing or two about letting go.

I’m learning to accept my feet. All my life, I’ve not been a big fan…feet. Yuck. But one cold morning in January, I had two babies 7 weeks early. And one of them, though she was only 4 pounds, came out with thin, long feet..a tiny replica of her mother’s.

I remember 2 days after delivery, the swelling had finally gone down in my feet and ankles and I swung my legs over the side of the hospital bed and slipped my feet into my pink, fuzzy slippers. It was the first time I had seen them look almost normal in several months. And I was so pleased as they immediately made me think of my tiny daughter sleeping in the NICU on the 2nd floor of the hospital. She was so slight and dainty, and I had only known her for a few days…it was hard to imagine that something about her was already so…familiar.

I began to take ownership of my feet (did I really just say that sentence?) And then last week on a family vacation, I saw my aunt who I haven’t seen in several years and she joyfully pointed to the ground below me and said, “Those are my feet! At least, 15 years ago those were my feet! My young feet…” And I was pleased. She also mentioned that her mother, my grandmother, wore size 7…just like me. Pleased again.

So my feet are skinny and my big toe is slightly too long. But they are my inheritance and I am passing them on.