My little girl is getting so big.

Sophie dressed herself the other day —  in a red tee shirt, black capri pants and sparkly Mary Jane tennis shoes — and it took me several hours to realize that not so long ago, those black capris were black pants that dragged well past her ankles.

It’s the thyroid medicine. Sophie’s been to two follow ups in the past six months, and both times she’s grown. The last time it was half a inch. She’s still the littlest kid in the second (soon to be third) grade, but finally, she’s inching up.

I’m glad she’s healthy, but to be honest, I like my kids short. Let’s not rush that whole growing up thing; it’s happening fast enough as it is. Plus, it’s become a bit of a parlor trick: The girls open their mouths and surprise strangers, who typically eyeball my kids and guess Sophie to be 3 or 4, Annabelle 6 tops. Annabelle hates it but Sophie doesn’t seem to mind.

In fact, the other night we were out for dinner and Sophie announced, “Mommy, I don’t want to grow any more. I want to get smaller and smaller and be your baby and you can carry me always.”

Sophie loves to “cuddle to sleep” on the couch, then be carried to bed. Often these days, when I pick her up at the end of the evening, I whisper in her hair, “Pretty soon, I won’t be able to do this anymore, you’re getting so big. One of these days I’ll go to lift you up and nothing will happen!”

I never realized she could hear me.

Sophie’s so bright, advanced in many ways. At least, advanced past where I thought she’d be, where I think she’ll be. And yet I would not be honest if I didn’t tell you I wish for a pill to make her brain grow, too.

In a big picture way — really, in most of the ways that matter — my little girl is an old soul. She knows when I’m sad and just what to do to make me happy; she remembers sweet details of our lives that I’ve forgotten; she knows just the right buttons to press to piss off her big sister.

It’s the little pictures I worry about — the ones that zoom by, day to day, making up the movie of our lives. Will I have to keep the front door locked Sophie’s entire life, to keep her from wandering out it? Will she ever conquer basic math or learn when it’s time to end a phone conversation? Part of me hopes she doesn’t — math is overrated, and everyone should get at least one annoying but love-filled phone call from Sophie at least once in their life. (Her text messages are pretty awesome, too.)

But a bigger part of me worries that as she grows up, those things we find cute will curdle. I’ve written about the Salad Days before. I looked at those black now-capri pants and saw one more sign that they’re coming to a close. I wonder if Sophie knows it, too, somehow. Maybe that’s why she begged to stay small.