Friday, February 15, 2013

Happy Birthday, Bugaloo!

My little one is seven.  Seven!  Seven just doesn't sound so...little, anymore.  She's growing up, my baby.

What's gratifying about her, though, is how mature as she is, she maintains a childlike wonder and love of things playful, sweet, and simple.

"Play with me, Mama," she pleads, when she's not strapping dolls to her chest with scarves and walking them about the house in a stroller.  She pulls out board games, packs of cards, and puzzles.  She begs to accompany me on jogs around the neighborhood.  She loves biking and monkey bars and playground swings. 

Her big sister's closest companion (when they're not at loggerheads), she's known for her patience, kindness, and unflagging attention to younger children, doting on babies and toddlers.  She has a palpable maternal instinct; I imagine her teaching preschool someday.  She wants a baby for her birthday. 

She covets snuggles and begs for bedtime songs.  She leaves us heartfelt notes and drawings declaring her love, slipped in my iPad cover and taped to our bedroom furniture.  She's generous with toys and gifts, always saving one for her sister when she's not around. 

She's not easily hurt, but when wounded, it's deep and she expresses herself passionately.  She's blacks and whites, cheerful sunshine and periodic storms of stubborn stomping, tears, and yelling. 

Her father calls her "Little Miss Change Her Mind." 

No one can make her serious sister laugh like her Little Sis, goofy to the core.  Her silly expressions date back to toddlerhood, and she adds crazy voices and accents and dorky dance moves for entertainment and our occasional eye rolls. 

She makes our lives lighter and brighter, our little Harry Joe.  Welcome to seven, sweetheart!



 

Sunday, February 10, 2013