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With snow falling only once or twice a year here in Nashville, the passage of time can be measured in this house by snow pictures.

Punky’s first snow fell when she was eight months old, allowing me to put her in her snowsuit for the first and last time. She spent all of five minutes outside, but we got our pictures for the baby book and I was happy.

It next snowed when she was almost two and by this time, she was old enough to actually play in it. She stomped around for a while on our back deck, exclaiming, “Oooh, iss messy! Iss a mess!” (Something I never would have remembered, incidentally, if it weren’t for my blog.)

At two-and-a-half, she spent most of her time shaking tree branches and laughing as the snow fell on her head.

And there was this year’s snow, the snow in which I realized only after taking a few dozen pictures and uploading them onto my computer that despite the fact that she was wearing the same coat and mittens as she was last year (I buy everything a size up, after all), undeneath her layers my plump-cheeked baby has, right beneath my nose, turned into a long haired, long-legged little girl. A little girl who on this day, got to play outside by herself for the very first time. She didn’t know quite what to do in our big backyard, but she relished in being on her own for once, marching back and forth, singing softly, throwing bits of snow at the dog, and looking quite proud of herself.

I actually cried looking at these photos. How did this happen? When did all of her pants suddenly shrink up above her ankles, and how did her adorable little potbelly disappear, leaving her with perpetual plumber’s butt? And will I ever just take her to the damn hairdresser, already?

I have one more year with this amazing little girl before she starts school and by god, I want to make the most of it. She is a dancing, singing, storytelling joy to have around, and I can tell you right now that I’m going to be the one sobbing on the first day of kindergarten, even as she marches into that classroom happy and excited and not looking back.

I’m sure I’ve written about this before, but one of the greatest blessings of being a stepmother to two teenage girls is that I have the gift of understanding how quickly time passes. The two little girls who once sat on my lap and braided my hair and danced hand in hand with me now give me only the most reluctant hugs, as though I have some sort of highly contagious disease. The two little girls who hung on my every word now look at me like I’m the village idiot whenever I dare to voice my opinion, and then proceed to tell me why I’m so sadly and pathetically wrong. Seven years with them has passed like a page in a book that’s just not long enough. And as difficult as it’s been for me, it’s been even harder for my husband, who has grieved their passage into puberty and the Land of Hands Off almost like a death. I’m pretty sure I witnessed his heart being broken for the first time when the child who was his shadow morphed almost overnight into a teenager who seemed to want little to do with him.

Adolescence invaded our lives like a sonic boom and while I was stunned by it once, I’ve resolved not to let it take me by surprise a second time. And so every moment with my little ones is bittersweet. I never refuse a request to snuggle. I never turn down a chance to read a book or watch a movie or give a hug and a kiss. I stop what I’m doing a million times a day to nuzzle my two small children, to smell the spicy sweet scent of my daughter’s hair or my son’s oatmeal breath. I squeeze his sticky hands and fat thighs. I hold my little girl in a curled ball on my lap while she watches Scooby Doo and kiss the top of her head. And even doing these things, even when the days sometimes seem interminably long and impossibly dull, time is still passing too fast. The seasons are changing with the speed of a shooting star and my little girl, despite my best efforts, is growing up.

And as hard as I try to hold back just a little bit, and to be prepared to one day let them go, I can already feel my heart beginning to break just a little bit, in anticipation.

This post originally appeared on Parents.com.