You are four years and ten months old today. You woke up this morning as you do every morning: looking for your daddy. Your day cannot start until you've asked him if you can hold him. If it were up to you your day would consist of nothing more than you, daddy, a ball, and the park. With me perhaps making an occasional visit to deliver food.
If you can't find daddy in the mornings, you'll settle for me and show up next to me at my desk saying "hold you". Memes in one hand, thumb in your mouth.
I cannot get my brain around the fact that you're going to be five years old in just a few more weeks. Five years of watching you blossom and grow into the amazingly gentle person that you are.
And funny! You have
my a great sense of humor! The other day you told Daddy "I'm happy that I'm not Spanish because I wouldn't be able to understand myself".
You're really into being healthy now. You want to know if what you're eating is "junk food" or healthy to make you "run fast". You were sick this month and had a temperature of 104. Mommy and daddy were panicked and you calmly advised us that you'd be fine - you just needed "broccoli".
You're obsessed with words. You want to read so badly. But, alas, you are blessed with your mother's short fuse and impatience. You like to sound out the words exactly twice. After that, you'd prefer the book to be burned rather than try a third time. Once you grasp a word though and are able to identify it, you are absolutely thrilled. You recognize that reading will open up a whole new world for you that I cannot wait for you to enter.
You learned to snap your fingers this month. The first time you snapped, after weeks of practicing, you walked all over the house snapping in wonderment. Then you came up to me and asked "Mom, shouldn't we call someone and tell them?" like we always have with every big achievement in your little life. No matter where we are (in the middle of a movie theatre) or what we're doing (trying to balance my checkbook) you interrupt to ask "Can you hear that mom? Yeah. That's me snapping". You're something more than proud of this achievement. You feel cool.
I feel sad that you've become interested in "being cool". I know what comes along with this: the sting of not being cool. You go out of your way to include yourself with the older girls around us, trying to dress like they dress and talk like they talk. You want to grow up so quickly - you're constantly asking me when you'll be their age. You refuse to believe that they will always be older than you. With a little effort, you know you can catch up.
You love nothing more than feeling helpful. You look for every opportunity to find something daddy or I have lost or to surprise us with a chore you've done without being asked. You rush to help daddy "move the lawn" with his "lawnmover". You offer to accompany me on errands so I "won't be lonely".
You're an artist. Your day isn't complete until you've drawn a picture of yourself and someone you love. You're always sure to include their favorite things: your friends always have their toys, mommy always has her coffee, daddy always has his dog.
I love to hear you play with your dolls. I hear you mimic my voice, my irritation, my laugh, my endearments. Hearing my parenting mirrored back through your perception is something I've feared. But, I love it now. I love hearing you put them to bed, shoosh them, cover them with their blankets, push their stroller. I catch a glimpse of you as a mother. And it is breathtaking.
You are opinionated and dramatic. You won't hesitate to cry and yell and slam your bedroom door and insist "you don't understand what I'm saying!". You are intent on communicating your displeasure. While this can be (very) exhausting for us, I take pleasure in knowing my daughter will never take anything lying down.
You're a fighter.
You're an artist.
You're a lovebug.