Eleri bellery pudding and pie,
Eleri belle, belle-belle, baby noodle, noodley toodles.
Today you are four years old.
You're a funny girl, did you know that? You have this amazing natural comic timing that makes us all laugh. To be honest, half the time I'm not sure you know why it's funny, which part was the punchline, but of course you love cracking us up just the same. Your silly faces and crazy dances. Your jokes--it feels like you have been telling honest-to-goodness jokes since you could speak. Remember the one about the eyeballs? I think it was one of your first full sentences.
When you are not being silly, you are working with laser focus. You are so deep in concentration (or in your own little world) that it can take physical intervention to get your attention. Just saying your name is not enough: we need to put a hand on your shoulder, brush back your hair, lift your chin to make eye contact. Then you can hear us.
You continue to do things all in your own good time. And let's be honest, your speed settings do not include "quick." In your end of school report, your teachers wrote that you understand the rules of the community, but take your own sweet time complying. We are no strangers to this at home. When you change outfits a million times a day, it is because you are "too sweaty." When you do not want to pick up toys (and really, do you ever?), "Clio left it out." But when you want to help, oh you are marvelous. Scraping carrots (to their core.) Mixing batter for cake or muffins (and licking the beater as reward. Did I ever tell you that you got your chin stuck in one of those once?) Watering the plants or folding napkins.
You are also stubborn, and will do it your way or not at all. Luckily, your way is usually agreeable. But not always. You sure do know how to stonewall your sister. In the car on the drive to school, you often want stories. You two never, ever want the same one on the same day (even though the list we choose from is only 4 or 5 long.) You would rather have no story than not-your-story, and compromise often means Clio caving. At night, too, when you each choose songs, you are not very diplomatic if you don't like Clio's choice. You will simply shriek over me singing. The solution has been for me to whisper-sing Clio's song right in her ear, and since she loves this, it works out just fine. But why does it need to be this way, my dear? And really, enough already with the shrieking. I have had to pull the car over and park until you stop.
You are fond of "trickin." (Clio is too.) Like pretending to suck your thumb pretty flagrantly until we tell you to stop, and it turns out you were just pretending, your thumb tucked inside your fist. You use "trickin" as an excuse sometimes, too. You do not like washing your hands, and sometimes after you use the bathroom you lie and say you have; when called out, you say you were "just trickin." We got good smelling soap now, so the new drill is to let us smell your hands for proof. Now when we ask and you have perhaps misled us, you just say "oh, I forgot" and wash 'em up.
You hear everything. Yesterday, walking to your birthday party, I heard you saying "god dammit god dammit god dammit" under your breath, just totally matter of fact. You must have heard me say this (probably in the car under poor driving conditions) and you were just testing it out. Right? But it was somehow so endearing, and also funny, and we often have to remind ourselves not to laugh at things we don't want repeated.
You (still) don't like change. At the beginning of the summer program, when the class size is down and the groups get mixed, I walked you to another classroom and you just pointed at yours and burst into tears. But maybe, as things change less for you and you gain a sense of security, this will begin to ebb. Tomorrow you will go to summer school in the school's new building, and when I mentioned this yesterday your response was unbridled (and uncharacteristic) enthusiasm. We'll see what tomorrow brings. This fall, though, you will return to the same class and the same teachers as last year. With four different classrooms under your belt in four short years, I think this is the year where you finally get to really settle in. I'm curious to see what that will bring for you.
As I think about it, four may also be the last year that is sort of "simple," from a parenting perspective. This is the funny thing about parenting: the second time around, we recognize our own phases, not just yours. Perhaps this means I will remember to slow down and enjoy it just a little more. I can't wait to spend it with you.
Happy Birthday, big four year old.
Love,
Mommy
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