At nine years old, she is still a girl, but I look at my daughter and see glimpses of who she will be as a woman. And I worry. Ceaselessly. And I love. Ceaselessly. For me, being a mother is a never-ending juxtaposition of exaggerated joy for the todays and unending mourning for all the yesterdays. Sometimes the the yesterdays' mourning creeps up on the todays.