Four Years and Four Hours

My 'baby girl' is four today. It is so hard for me to wrap my head around this. Four. As in, "yeah, that is me dressing myself, almost reading, going off to classes without even looking back at you, mom. Catch you on the flip side."

When Jilly was born, she was a fat little butterball of a baby. A "chubby little bug" is how Fairly Odd Father phrased it in the email that went out to friends. Our second girl. 10 fingers, 10 toes and all that.

She is still perfect in every way, but not before we worried about everything. Her weight crawled to 17 pounds at a year, 24 pounds at two, 27 at three. If she breaks 30 at her four-year checkup, I'll be shocked. She has always been so wiggly---a squirmy worm---that she quickly burned through any baby fat she may have had at birth to become the skinniest healthy child.

She is at times fearless, trying to keep up with the six year olds who come to visit her big sister. Other times, she is the smallest of small, curled into a tight little ball in my lap, like a cat.

When friends and acquaintances tell me they are considering going from one child to two, I always think about Jilly and how full she makes our lives. I think of her enthusiasm for life, a tiny little spitfire ready to tackle anything but not without a big hug and a kiss first. When she hangs onto my neck and buries her face into my hair, I can almost pretend she is still my little baby, so tiny and light and sweet. But, then she wiggles out of my arms and runs off to try another adventure, and I see the little girl she is becoming before my eyes.

Happy Birthday my sweet girl.