I want to go to the beach.

I keep staring at the clock on my computer. I’ve been staring at a blank page now for 20 minutes. It’s getting late. It’s already past 8:30 and I should be in bed. But I have so much to say. I just don’t know how to get it out.

This weekend I experienced a moment. I don’t know what to call this moment; I can only describe how it feels by comparing it to something that it could possibly be like.

It’s kind of like that split second rush you get right before you step into the sand for the first time during your beach vacation, like looking in the mirror at the finished product after dolling yourself up for a night out, like the moment you first realize that he’s going to propose and the moment your dad gives you away to him, or when the doctor comes in and tells you it’s time to start pushing.

Those moments are the precursors to a snowball effect, they last only seconds, and once caught up in the avalanche that follows, are easily tossed aside and forgotten only to be replaced by moments you assume are much bigger. But without those moments, what follows would not be as nearly as exciting.

This past weekend was kinda like that.

Evelyn had her four month check-up. A whoppin’ 15 pounds and some change. 80th percentile.

The good news: She is perfectly healthy.

The bad news: We walked out of there with a band aid on each leg.

We prepared ourselves this time. The last round of vaccines left her sore, tired, feverish, and fussy for five days following her appointment. So, we made no set-in-stone plans. We just went with it.

Evelyn surprised us. While she did run a fever the whole time, she was in great spirits about it all. I tried not to attack her with the camera this weekend for fear of ruining her surprisingly good mood, but I did get a chance to take some four month photos.

Yes, that's right, she can do baby push ups now.

And then there was that moment. That right-before-everything-gets-hectic moment. The moment where my baby girl becomes just a little less dependent on me, and while I am excited to see her experience new things; it breaks my heart a little. The moment that I’ll remember doing, but forget how it felt exactly because I’ll do it a thousand more times in her lifetime.

And she loved it. We loved it.

We videotaped. We took photos. We laughed. She laughed. We awed and told her how big of a girl she was. That kid just literally and figuratively ate it up!

She already knows what is coming when we plant her into her highchair and she stares with anticipation the entire time I am fixing her food.

Yeah that was the look.

As if she isn't doing enough already, she also wants to help out and try it herself.

Not to bad for a first try.

Tomorrow it will be sweet potatoes, then pears, and then eventually finger foods, and eating what we have for dinner.

It will snowball. It will then avalanche,

She eventually won’t rely on her momma as much.

But I want to remember what it feels like to sink my toes into the warm sand for the first time. So I’m going to drag this split-second moment out for as long as possible, and when it’s over, I’m going to try and remember how it felt the moment I let her grow up just a little as often as I can.

I think I'll call it the toes-in-the-sand-moment.