And all those exclamations are appropriate, because you, my dear, personify the exclamation point. You don't just do anything, you do! things! with! "!"
Four years ago today, you were born in Chicago. Though no one who met you now would believe it, for you have acquired a twang befitting a Texan by birth. Your ability to turn one-syllable words into a two-syllable song is unrivaled (and I know makes your Ma-Maw's heart swell with pride). Yes, I will get you some "mi-yalk" to drink, I am sorry that you are "sti-yall" waiting for it!
You are four today, which seems mighty old, though, as mentioned last year, you seem in many ways to reach your age before achieving it... what I mean is, you just seem so darn grown up. You acted like a three year old when you were two, so naturally, between turning three and four, you have somehow turned into a teenager.
Ok - so it isn't THAT drastic, but sometimes, with how fast time is moving, it feels like we are right at that doorstep.
Then you say the word "Lellow" and all is, again, right in the world. Or the word "granilla", which serves both as a description for the snack you like ("granilla bar") and the animal (the "granillas in the zoo").
I guess the most drastic changes are slowing down. I know there are other things you used to say and used to do, but they are already a distant memory in some ways. Distant memories I cling to in a quiet moment, but can't remember in the rush of the usual day. Like bandaids - they are no longer your accessory of choice and no longer decorate the end of every finger on your hand. This is good in some ways - bedtime is quicker, our shopping budget is lower, you no longer look like a criminal in the making that just scalded your fingerprints off. But then its sad, too. Its another era that has come to an end.
You are much like your brother in that you can sit on the floor and draw for hours. Though, unlike Cooper, who would practice and practice drawing his toys (cars, trains, transformers), you focus mainly on letters, and can write pretty much each one better than many of Dad's fifth grade students. You can spell the name of each member of our family, and have been practicing my last name (after getting over the shock that it was not, in fact, the same as yours).
But last names - who needs those to match when all I hear is that you are a little version of me?
Oh, but I wish I could be so lucky.
While I can't (have never been able to) see that we look alike, I do see some similarities. You are strong willed. You like to dress yourself. You are sensitive. You can cut through to the right or wrong of a situation, and don't get lost in gray areas, but rather speak loudly and clearly to explain why that gray is in fact more white than black or more black than white. You have trouble falling asleep. You only think it is fun to be tickled for a second, and then you think it sucks. But then there are things about you I can never relate to, but will always be either perplexed by or marvel at: You are brave even when you are scared, you speak up for yourself without fear, you forgive easily, you hate spagghetios, and you appear quite coordinated in dance class.
It frightens me how brilliant you are. Much like your brother. More frightening is that you may not use your brilliance for only good. Not to say you would use it for evil, for you don't have that in you, not even an ounce.
But for mischief - most definitely.
I used to HATE those women... you know the ones. The ones who would tell me how I should appreciate how easy it is to work when you have a little one at home. How babies are easy, because to babies, caregivers are fungible. In addition to completely eviscerating the importance I placed on my role as a mother, they simultaneously ignored the other half of that equation. it was not ever only about being there to meet your needs. It has always been about wanting to be there to meet your needs, because that met my needs to. And while I still think those women are... shall we say clueless, I can finally understand perhaps a grain of what they might have been trying to say. More so now than ever, you don't want someone to pick you up from school, you want Mama to do it. Dad works, too, but when Mama picks you up it is a *special occasion*. Every day you ask "do I have school tomorrow" and deflate a little when I say yes. I know you like school. I know you are learning in school. I know you are making friends in school. I see it in the way you bring home new ideas and skills. The way I catch you giggling and laughing when I peer through the door before entering the room to pick you up. The way all the kids will cheer "Hi Daphne" when you walk in, and race to give you a hug before you leave. You are beloved, little one, every where you go. But it breaks my heart a bit, because I wish more than anything that some evening on a school night, I could just say "No school, tomorrow" and keep you home with me. I can't do that now - days have already been used for sick days, and upcoming days are slotted for vacation. Work ethic is something we don't take lightly in our house, and it is important you know that. It is important I model that. But I am growing ever more aware that "school" now is voluntary, in the sense that, were I a SAHM, you and I could spend full days together, and in less than 2 years this won't be the case. Before I know it you will be entering school that tells me what days I can come up for lunch, that keeps track of your absences. That sends homework to clutter our evenings. That won't let me watch from the door window....
Blessedly, when that time comes, at least school will be free. :)
Happy birthday, little one.
You are the "be-yest" early birthday present I have ever received.
xoxoxox - your mama
