My adult daughter.

I frequently think of my daughter being much older than she is. When she plays dress-up with fake butterfly wings and a wand, I think ahead to a teenager who will obsess over a prom dress. When she was a baby, I had a dream of her as a grown woman with short blonde hair and a babyish face.

I went to wake her from a nap, and she stubbornly refused to rouse. I leaned in close and whispered to her to wake up, a hand rubbing her back as my mom rubbed mine many many times. She frowned, clenched her eyes tight, whined without a word, and rolled over to face the wall. Then she pulled her covers completely over her head.

I looked at her toddler bed with no toddler to be seen, just a pink Hello Kitty blanket over a lump of crabbiness. I imagined this same interaction playing out hundreds of times over the next 15 years. She'll double her weight and not quite double her height, but she'll be the same daughter.