"I want to do it mySELF!"
So let's just open with that statement, that assertion. That sentence that you say six dozen times a day, because you don't want to be assisted with ANYTHING. You want to get on the chair yourself. Put on your socks yourself. Balance the checkbook yourself. Climb into the car seat yourself. Oh the car seat.
"I want to do it mySELF," you say, half smiling but mostly defiant.
"Okay, fine. I'll wait and you climb into the car seat yourself. Please hurry," I said to you, knowing we had ten minutes to drive over to the bank.
"Aw-wight." And you scamper happily into the car, embarking on the seven minute journey of settling into the car seat. Come hell or high water, you will do it yourSELF. (For the record, we didn't make it to the bank on time.)
The last month has had me home more than usual, so we've had a lot of time to hang out. And I love that. You're fast-transitioning from a little Bird that I take care of to one that I can actively hang out with, buddy-style. Sitting and having breakfast with you gives rise to some of the oddest, most entertaining conversations I've had in a long time (I do so enjoy when you tell me about what you think your grandparents do when they aren't with you). And talking on the phone with you breaks my heart, because the blow-by-blow details of what you're doing are very intense. ("I took the ball and put the ball in the hoop and then it fell down so I cried and then put the ball in the hoop AGAIN, mommy, but it was a different hoop and the ball was BLUE! Not red. Blue.")
Your obsessions are expanding, and now include the likes of the band Plan B (this song in particular - so awesome), Jungle Junction (are Ellyvan and Zooter like a thing or are they just friends?), and glucose tabs. Or, as you have deftly assigned them: gluPose tabs. Anytime the Dexcom wails, you trot off and return shaking the plastic jar of tablets. "Glupose tabs, mama?" "No, I'm okay, but thanks."
And god help us if we pass by a playground without stopping. Slides, swings, open grassy areas where you run with your arms flapping and your ponytail bouncing until you fall down in a tangled, giggling heap? You love it all. Despite your proficiency at "check-a your emails?" with your little fake computer, being outside is the greatest thing ever for you. This summer, we clung to every scrap of our beach days, we're still trucking around on the bike ("I like my tent!"), and the backyard is littered with evidence of playtime (including a small, plastic Elmo doll shoved deep inside a tree stump ... he looks uncomfortable). I love that you love being outside. You make me love being outside even more.
Birdzone, you have dark curly hair from your great-grammie and your auntie. You have your father's eyes. But damn, child ... you have my stubborn and independent attitude. And while that makes my head spin with frustration sometimes, I'm proud that you're exactly the way you are. Because despite what you have inherited from your family members, you're all YOU. And YOU are a strange and wonderful critter who leaves piles of acorns outside to feed the hedgehog that lives underneath our deck, and who pets the cats with carefully calculated strokes, assuring me, "I am being GENTLE," as the cats are pancaked against the floor.
You are my friend. My best little friend. Even when you want to do everything yourSELF.