The purest blonde hair rested atop my small head. The hairstyle ranged with the little hair I had. My wispys acted as pseudo bangs.

My eyes had run dry of the tears that used to flow from when I was a baby. They sparkled with laughter.

My pudgy cheeks smiled as wide as the moon. They were uplifted by any variety of things, mainly my loving family.

At four feet tall, I was the shortest. Looking up to my family metaphorically and physically, I thought of how I would be like them one day. Strong, tall, old, stressing out over homework, all of the workings of someone older than me.

Five feet and four inches, I was no longer the “baby.” I was taller than two people in my family. It feels weird to think now I was only thirteen. I didn’t feel any taller. I never do.

My sister taught me how to run properly, and now I defeat her with workouts. My dad taught me how to play softball, and now I teach him how to save our environment. My brother taught me how to use my imagination well, and now I teach him to appreciate the arts. My mom taught me how to be a caring and kind person, and now I take her on adventures and keep her grammar-teaching sharp.

I was the youngest. I still am. I had a crazy, close family. I still do, maybe not always in distance but in spirit. They all have shaped me into the person I am and will be in the future.

I am still walking with one foot in the path of my siblings. I am still taking many of the same classes and striving for good grades. I still love science.

I have one foot on my own path, though. Whether I am ready or not. I am the youngest and still shoveling out the snow in the way of my path.

Because of my age, however, I am not in this struggle alone. My parents and siblings are each with me, each holding a shovel. Despite my height, I am still holding the short one. I will never let go of that baby shovel.

I am the baby, if not in size, then in heart.