Ten years. A decade.
Where do I start?
Ten years. A decade.
Where do I start?
I’m having some serious trouble, Choo Choo. You’re five. FIVE. You’ve hit that penultimate step from wee babe to being a grade-schooler (the last, obviously, is going to Kindergarten; at least we have a few months before that).
But still, five.
Well, Monkey, you’re seven.
Like, seven. I’m having trouble really saying that. It’s just weird that you’re so much older than I always feel like you should be. You’re growing up a little more every day, and flit between my little girl and … well, kind of an evil genius, really.
And truly, both are awesome.
It’s one of those funny things you sometimes run into as a parent. In one moment, you’re nearly panicking at the seemingly rapid passage of time, that your tiny infant is suddenly racing around the house, reading books far too advanced for her age, and threatening to debate logical positivism. Then you look down and see that one child is adorably cute and had been so for, also seemingly long, forever.
Today, dear Choo Choo, you turned 3. And while the world seems to be spinning around me beyond my control, you sit there at the centre of the storm, giggling and playing and singing songs and making faces and smiling, smiling, smiling. Oh, how I cannot believe how much happier my life is when I get a big hug from you.
Like this morning, when you got up…
Today was a big day, Monkey. A milestone — yet another of many to come. Another year has passed, but it’s an important one. You’re past infant, toddler, and now preschooler. You’re a real kid, now. You’re going to school — real school.
You’re not my “little” girl anymore. You’re a big girl now, really. (You’ll always be little, by the way. Just accept it and let’s move on, shall we?) I still find it hard to see you growing up, almost like you’re slowly getting away from me with every day.
I can’t believe you’re 5 already, Monkey.
Happy 2nd birthday, my dear Choo Choo!
It’s almost impossible to believe you been with us only two years, you shining little light. Two short — and somehow, impossibly long — years ago, you found yourself suddenly freezing, weighed, and then set upon by a dozen doctors and nurses who were all convinced you were not exactly in the best of health. To see you running around today, inhaling chocolate cupcakes like they were air … well, if anything, I’d suspect those doctors would feel proud you’ve turned out so well.
Goodness knows I am, kiddo.
My big girl just got a little bigger. You turned 4 today, Monkey. You’re now so old that I’m having trouble remembering when you weren’t in my life. I’m also having trouble remembering when you were a wee babe, which kind of breaks my heart a little.
Unlike your other birthdays, I didn’t get to spend all of today with you. I had to go to work, so you spent most of the day with Mommy, and then with Grandma just before I got home. But in case you don’t remember today, Monkey, I hope you remembered yesterday.
That’s when we partied.
Happy birthday to me, etc., bla bla bla and yadda yadda yadda. Yes, it was yesterday, but I was a little too preoccupied with my birthday to actually write about it. So it comes, here at the end of the weekend, as we wind down the festivities and prepare for another week of near-abject mayhem.
I will freely admit that it wasn’t my “best” birthday, but it was definitely memorable (and positively so), which in the end is pretty much all you can ask for, right? Besides, it’s the last birthday before I get tagged with all those “other the hill” monikers. (Cathy, if you even think about pulling a lawn full of fake gravestones next year, you have no idea the wrath I shall drop on you for your 40th…)
It all started at 4:00am on Saturday morning…
Well, my little girl, you’re a year old today. A year ago, you came into our world early, confused, cold, and separated from Mommy. It wasn’t exactly how any of us had hoped you’d arrive, but we were happy to have you no matter how it all went.
Mommy and I had been looking forward to today for a long time. We wanted your first birthday to be small, surrounded with just a few of us, making as much fuss as we could without completely overwhelming you. Today wasn’t really about you, so much as it was about us. You see, we’re actually kind of sad, today.
Why? Well, you’re no longer our baby girl. You’re grown up.
Well, Monkey, despite all your best attempts to drive Mommy and I to the brink of toddlericide, you made it to be three. It was your first birthday in Canada — your previous birthdays were both in Costa Rica. It wasn’t as warm as it was there, and there was no pool for you to splash in. But that didn’t seem to bother you any.
It’s hard for some of us to truly believe that you’re three. You’re still a baby to us, in many ways. And yet even someone who’s never met you before can carry out a (reasonably coherent) conversation with them. You know what you like and what you don’t like (even if you actually do like it and you’re just being difficult), and you no longer parrot what we’ve said — you have your own thoughts.
And I gotta tell ya, kid … today, you made me a very proud daddy.