Bee is 3. We’ve spent the week in tiny, intermittent celebrations – a slice of cake at one grandmother’s house, a trip to the ice cream shop with another. It has been quiet, with joy. It has been sweet.
Yesterday, she ran around with the fly swatter for an hour, challenging herself to exterminate all distractions. Gotcha! Gotcha! Did NOT Gotcha! she had shouted.
We have been running to and fro this summer, and we feel the pull. We are being stretched. Soon, the stretch will be wide enough to expand, wide enough to cover another little one.
What do you want to eat for your birthday, we ask?
Pants, she giggles.
Today, I will bring her a balloon. We will play another round of Memory, and we will eat bananas with the skin off, and we will save room for an adventure, whatever the day will bring.
I changed my mind. I want bacon!
We will have bacon for dinner.
Last week, she saw her birthday present – a favorite library book – unwrapped in the office. I had ordered her own copy, and it came during dinner hour. I’d forgotten to hide it.
It’s for your birthday, I had said. We’ll have to wait.
Waiting is really really really hard sometimes, she says.
It is harder than riding my bike, she says.
Bee is 3. Soon, we will be 4.
We will wait. We will play Memory, we will have bacon, we will ride bikes.
It will be quiet, with joy.
It will be sweet.