I love you more than I can stand sometimes! At five, you bring a smile to my face almost every hour. You are silly, spunky, and fierce in all your beliefs about the world. You're a petitioner, eloquent, persistent. "I need to say something!" you cry, impatient that your point has not been heard: "Wait! Listen!" You love to cuddle, still, and in the mornings ask to climb in bed with me or sit on the couch with me while you drink a cup of milk. At five, you are whizzing through your "letter books"--learning all the sounds--and your math books. You have a growing tolerance for books with little or no pictures. Against your own judgment you are glued to the couch, sucked into the story in spite of your frustration that there is no picture of Alice in the little hallway of doors. You love computer games of any kind and "shows" (oh how you beg for those even when I hold out on you most of the time). You love friends, guests, visitors--anyone who comes to our house. You want to talk with them, befriend, entertain. You love your big sister, too. "We're best friends," you say proudly and sometimes refer to her as "Sissy," giving her a little pat on the back. Sometimes the two of you argue. Sometimes you heave her off a chair onto the floor, but later you are contrite and you come apologizing with tears in your eyes. When wronged, you're quick to forgive and you never hold a grudge. At five, you try to avoid going to sleep at night, sneaking books or other toys onto your bed hoping you won't be found out (you almost always are). When that happens, you smile mischeviously. "The book was already on my bed!" you insist, knowing I know you know this is not the truth, that fact so apparent in your face it doesn't actually seem like you are lying, but rather trying on words for the occasion, examining their effects like a new outfit in the mirror. Speaking of the mirror, you take care with your appearance, meticulous in observing your everchanging aesthetic--six barrettes one day, a ponytail and long silk sash haphazardly tied twice around your head the next. You hate socks, jackets, coats, shoes, gloves and half of the underwear you own. You are just starting to wear pants without complaining. You love to wear adult-sized t-shirts for pajamas. In some moments you believe you are capable of everything. In others, you insist you are cabaple of nothing, hoping for my intervention, which I more often than not am happy to give.
Here's to growing up, little Ev!
Happy Birthday!
Love,
Mama
