Avery is a parrot at two and a half. Repeating the good and not-as-good sayings of the older three. I've been in denial, but will here admit that she is NO LONGER A BABY. When she is reprimanded (a new occurrence) she croons, "but, Maaaammmmaaaa." Tears on demand. Lots of demands. A three-year-old in the making for sure. But. So. Darn. Cute.
I'm at a loss as far as brand new four-year-olds are concerned. Hazel is infamous in Primary. She's boisterous, demanding, super smart, and as strong-willed as they come. At. A. Loss. My mom says, "stand your ground." So I am. It is painful. I have no more to say.
Lucy is five and a half and there couldn't be a sweeter age. She has a tenderness unheard of in a child. Her emotionality throws her father for a loop, but he always finds his way back to her charms. And, we're growing out her hair. When she was still four and I was trimming her locks, do you remember when she asked if the next time I cut her hair, "can you cut it LONG, mom?"
Seven and a half is the most purposeful age I've come across. Seth's interests are blooming. He's fallen in love with the piano. Art lessons were much to restrictive for him. With the myriad of assignments coming his way he moaned, "but I just want to do landscapes". He sits on the ebony bench and with the sustaining pedal pushed he taps out soft homemade melodies and asks, "was that beautiful music, mom?" Yes, I say, beautiful. I have a boy in love. On the side, he's having an affair with magic and is making preparations for a show for all his cousins and aunts and uncles who will be coming next month.
Dr. Gooch and I are just the same, only better. I really believe that. Though we have just as far to go as we've come, I'm more in love and more content than I have been. I think he is, too.
I had a scare right before my trip to NYC. I, who am never late, found myself six days tardy. Six days. I was surprised at how this made my stomach churn and lurch at the prospect of pregnancy. I marvel at you women who, with seeming ease, bring big bursting broods into the world, fit them uncomplaining into your houses and then ache for more. I want to be you, but I am not. My mother has recently accepted the fact that she only likes to wear white, grey and black and she likes her curly hair made straight.
After peeing on a stick in the bathroom of Serendipity while I waited for my frozen hot chocolate, I discovered that I was indeed NOT pregnant.
I am accepting who I am, too. Not a ten-cow woman.
I like to wear splashes of bright color, I can go straight or curly. And I'm a four-child girl.