I haven't looked at her the same since.
She seems so big to me as she closes in on 4. I find myself searching for what to call her. She's not really a toddler anymore but I stumble over preschooler. Is she really that old?
Peanut colors inside the lines mostly now. She can identify her letters and tell what certain words start with. With some help, she can follow Lego directions. Some of her pants turned into high-waters overnight. One day her shoes fit, the next she complains that they are too small.
She tells me she wants to be a police officer when she grows up and she wants to have only one baby. No more. (This talk makes the husband go into seizures.)
She tells elaborate tales while "reading" her books. She sings made up songs while playing her keyboard pulling in bits and pieces from her day and weaving them together in beautiful, nonsensical verse. One day, while talking on her play cell phone, she called the police and asked them to come pick up her panda bear because he was being bad. (I swear we have not threatened to call the police on her although we might have said we were going to sell her to the gypsies ...)
She wants to help fold clothes, cook and doesn't fight us (much) when we ask her to clean her room. We still have the occasional toddler battles getting dressed and if her sister is getting attention at dinner time, she whines, "feed me."
But she is just so big.
I remember before she was born, taking pictures of her perfect nursery. Sitting in the rocking chair and trying to imagine how our lives would change.
I remember when she was born, hearing the nurse say, "come on, baby" while trying to get her to take her first breath and that first cry. Oh how that first cry filled me with a new kind of love.
I remember letting her sleep on my chest and marveling at her perfect little pink bow lips, how her eyelashes touched her cheeks, how her hair was growing into a mullet.
That small, wee little baby is now this: