On the cusp of turning 4, my little girl is still teeny tiny at times and other times her ferocity shocks me. Headstrong. Cuddle addict. Number obsessed. She can now write her name and mark her place in time. Eight swirly letters that dance across her drawings. She often spends more time decorating her name than doing the drawing she is claiming as her own.
Busy working out where she fits. Sometimes unhappy that she’s not an adult, like when she isn’t allowed to wear my make-up. Other times more than happy to linger in childhood and be carried rather than walk. Always happiest with her hand in mine, but if we’re out walking the pathways then she’ll clasp my hand with one of hers, and wedge her other hand in her big brother’s pocket. She’s the anchor that keeps his boat from sailing too far ahead, while he’s the wind for her sails to keep her drifting forward. No turning back, sailing ahead, 4 is just over the horizon.