Five: It's Pretty Good

My Dearest Little V,

You turned five last week.

Five!

Four years ago, when George W. Bush was re-elected, I distinctly remember thinking with great chagrin that my baby girl would be five years old before we could have a new president.

And I really wanted a new president, but I didn't want your growing up to be a prerequisite. Because even as I longed to set you down for just a moment and give my leaden arms a rest, I was already mourning the time when I could no longer carry you, call you by the diminutive form of your name, select delectable little girl outfits carte blanche, or kiss the warm delicious spot on your forehead a thousand times a day.

It's ironic that I've wanted to keep Five at bay. It was always your age in my dreams, when I'd conjure up the daughter I didn't dare voice a longing for until you were here in flesh, more perfect and beautiful than I could have ever imagined.

There's an important threshold that's crossed at Five, I think. You've been angling toward it for awhile now, and sometime during the past month, you arrived, crossing over into girlhood with poise and self-assurance.

I perceive this change in your daily observations about the word around you, in the way you have begun to cultivate friendships, and in the increased control you exert over your emotions.

You take Five very seriously, eager to meet its expectations of you. When you are Five, you sometimes let your brother swipe your toy, you tell me. When you are five, you do quiet work at your desk, you say. When you are five, you can have Barbie roller skates, as long as you wear protective gear and a helmet.

When you are Five, you select your own outfits, taking great pains to ensure that all available patterns and color combinations are represented.

When you are Five, you sit for hours at a time, cutting paper hearts and covering every inch of them with glitter. Each one is for your mother.

When you are Five, you want to know WHY.

You provide running commentary and astute observations about everything around you. You continue to talk after I buckle you in, close the door, and walk around to my side of the car. You begin talking when you wake up in the morning and you fall asleep in mid-sentence, while reading your picture dictionary aloud to your webkin.

You remember promises made days, weeks, months ago and hold your hapless parents accountable for every one.

You no longer fall apart at every little one of life's curve balls. You can get out of bed and dressed for school without bringing your mother to tears.

This time last year, I wanted to believe that we would round the corner. How, I wondered, could the relationship between a four year old and her mother already be so volatile, so tenuous, so fraught with emotion? I thought you were four-going-on-fourteen and I worried, little V, that our best moments were already behind us.

But while it's not uncommon for me to walk into a room to find you standing on tiptoes at the highest point you can access, holding a toy high above your head while a distraught little J-dog wails below, I've noticed a gentle outward shift in your consciousness, a kindness and concern for the fellow inhabitants of your world obviously emerging.

Of course, I've always believed you would be kind, intelligent, and beautiful in every way that counts, but now I see it's really true.

I love you so much, my dearest little V. Your baby years were everything that they were meant to be, but I'd be a fool to think that your debut into a strong, lovely girlhood could be anything less than a pleasure and honor to behold.