Yesterday, my girl turned eight. Eight! Looking at her baby brother now, it seems amazing that she was ever that small. That there was a time when she always wore pajamas with feet and I carried her everywhere on my hip. And here she is now. Eight.
Seven was a big year for her. She was diagnosed with celiac disease. She got a baby brother. And she handled both of these significant life changes with a grace that I didn't always quite manage myself. Seven was mudboots with dresses and striped tights, messy science experiments, a hundred castles built from blocks on the living room floor and for better or worse, relative mastery of the art of sarcasm. She read thousands of pages from books about fairies and decided to like kale. She caught frogs, demonstrated remarkable skill in the bathing of uncooperative cats, and discovered why Calvin and Hobbes is so funny. Additionally, she mastered the art of extending the bedtime routine into an epic nightly event.
So, happy birthday to my smart, funny, freckle-faced little girl. I don't know what eight will bring, but I expect that it will be pretty great too.
