Every time I look at her I wonder what happened to the time between when she was born and now, because, in my head, she was born yesterday.
And I know, on past experience, that the next five years are going to pass not only in the same twinkling of an eye but with a certain amount of shouting, stamping and sulking thrown in as well.
For in two weeks time my little girl starts at secondary school, the fourth largest in England, where adolescence and attitude and an over-indulgence in black eyeliner come as part of the uniform that now hangs, listlessly, on the wardrobe rail.
She's growing tall and fast too, almost by the day, so the school skirt that looked a respectable length in the school outfitters at the start of the summer will probably be little more than a mini on the first day of term.
And now I feel like I'm running to catch her up and wish she would slow down because to me she still is the silver-eyed baby, the little girl who refused to wear knickers (don't ask) and wouldn't leave the house without a pair of wings. She's still the little girl who played "Yoho" "Ahoy!" (and I loved that game) and trains, lots of trains. The one who cried on the wedding photos and ALWAYS had to be carried through puddles. The one who laughs like Sid James and the one that asks questions, always questions.
And even though she is 11 tomorrow, she will and, tell not a soul, always be that little girl to me even when she's all grown up which, she thinks, will be the day after tomorrow .....