I hate to break it to you Sacha, but now you are four. Not seven, as was your wont for most of the summer, or eight, the age to which you recently promoted yourself. Despite the fact that you consider your best friends to be a pair of third graders, you are now four years old, as every fiber in your being can attest.
I'm sorry you had a crappy birthday, as traveling home from a funeral with a sick mother is nobody's idea of fun. I'm sorry I didn't post this on your birthday, as is my habit.
You continue to find new ways to delight and confound me on a daily basis. You are wildly creative, with a perverse imagination which I mightily admire. Recently you had one of your most amusing and entertaining weekends to date, during which you used a wooden spatula to flush your father like a toilet, and moments later, improvised games of tennis and hockey utilizing said spatula and a ball.
Past experience has led me to believe that the great existential struggle of the preschool years is baby versus kid, and you are not yet certain which side of the fence you prefer. That we still have you sleeping in
Despite my well documented failed struggle to coax you to the other side of the fence, I will be waiting as patiently as I can to welcome you whenever it is you ultimately decide to arrive. As you have made abundantly clear, you do what you want to do, when you want to do it.
You make me swoon on a daily basis. Yesterday, while we were sitting in the dark of a movie theater, after being separated from me for all of 70 minutes, you walked over your brother and sister to climb into my lap, and proceeded to practically make out with me. Had this actually been your eighth, not your fourth birthday, it would have been wildly inappropriate. But seeing as you are just four, it was exactly the moment a mother lives for.
This is all by way of saying that despite the fact that you keep me constantly running, and try my patience daily, I enjoy your company tremendously, and adore you beyond belief.