One day over Christmas vacation, she essentially had a six-hour crying fit about . . . writing a single thank-you note. And getting dressed and brushing her teeth to go skating at the skating rink. Which she CLEARLY didn't get to do after all, because of the crying. And the screaming. And the lying on the hallway floor, the ripping up of the paper on which I had nicely written the names and gifts she needed for her thank-you notes, the slamming of the bedroom door, the threatening to run away in the snow while still wearing purple footie pajamas, etc.
The next day, she giggled almost constantly, hugged us a million times, went to church and sat still and quiet as a mouse. She built a fairy house and threw snowballs at the fence from her perch in the hot tub. Just before bed, she laughed so hard over something her sister said that she peed her pants and all over her bedroom floor.
Just now, she came downstairs after being tucked in ten minutes ago, wearing an entirely new set of pajamas than she'd been wearing when we turned out the light. She said her nose was itchy. She also said she'd already had a scary dream about a bat.
She started yoga class yesterday and is smug about how many of the poses she already knows from her kid yoga video. She loves her cats. She reads constantly. She resolved (possibly to impress her teacher) to "eat helthy food" in the new year. (Also: to "lisin on the first triy," to "riyd my to well bike," and to "do chors evrey day.") (I would welcome them all.)
You know how sometimes, your kids turn ages, and it seems wrong, and you can't believe they're that age? Well, that's not the case here; I can believe she's six. She turned it in a blaze of glory, with a chocolate raspberry torte from Julienne Tomatoes, surrounded by her cousins up north, followed by sledding and a (very) little painting party with friends when we got back home.
She's mostly happy, except when she's not. She mostly skips through the house, sings to herself while she's drawing or writing, hugs me fiercely when she gets home after school. She still comes to find me first thing in the morning, says, "Snuggle", and gets under the covers with me. She still sits on my lap at night when we read books before bed, and I feel the weight of her as she turns to let me scratch the bare skin on her back. Her hair smells like Cheerios and shampoo, and sometimes a little bit like gum.
She drew this self-portrait yesterday. She is six.
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