These kids just don’t listen to me. Year after year, I say, "Don’t turn 8 or 10 or 12 or ….. 5."
I get pouty just thinking about our Little Gal turning five.
I guess I’m going to have to face it. Birthday presents have already come in the mail (still wrapped, waiting for the day, later this week), and she’s getting beyond excited about a special day of her own. She tortures me with it, holding up all five fingers (& thumb) on a hand and reminding me over and over that she’s going to be five.
Five is so very grown up. I just can’t stand the thought.
She says, "It’s okay, Mama." Then…"I’m going to be five!"
No, Baby, I know Bandaids are disproportionately useful at healing many a real and phantom owie, but I don’t think they help sad hearts.