Turning four

Punk has a whole list of things in her world that will change when she turns four--which is today, by the way.
She will no longer require a booster seat to eat her meals.
She will get a booster car seat.
She will be a big girl.
I hate to break it to her, but my daughter is a midget Not literally, but figuratively. She's small. Just over thirty pounds and still wearing some 18 month old clothes.
She can't reach the light switches in our house.
She has to stand on a booster to reach the faucets.
Even with the booster, at the movies, she normally can't see, requiring a parental lap and some juggling for her view to be unobstructed.
She's just petite.
I love my midget girl.
She makes me laugh like you wouldn't believe.
My daughter is a force of nature, and she's kicking butt and taking names without mercy.
She is a daredevil, hell on wheels in pink, a tiny tornado that has the men in our lives succumbing to her cute grin and wily ways.
My daughter is woman in training and HERE HER ROAR!
And I'm laughing all the way behind her, arms outstretched to catch her if she falls.
It hardly seems possible that, four years ago, I didn't know this person as anything but a demanding parasite who had a time share of my uterus.
I have miserable pregnancies, vomiting, bleeding unable to gain weight.
But Punk's was especially trying with 5 months straight of migraines that no pain killer could alleviate.
I know now why I had those headaches. It was to toughen me up to my tiny terrorist. It was my prenatal baby boot camp.
And, looking back, I wouldn't change a thing, because it brought me her.
My baby girl turns four today. Time is racing by and I know I'm forgetting to do some important parent to a girl things that I'll surely regret later.
But one thing is always true.
My daughter is the best daughter I could have ever dreamed of.
And, for that, I am humbly grateful.
Happy birthday, Punk. Know that there is love, and it pales in comparison to how I feel about you. May you rock four like you've done every other year in your short life--with style, flare, a few well placed curse words (oops!) and a laugh that rings through the air like handfuls of joy.
And thank you for allowing me to share in your life.
I love you, midget girl.

Memories

Today, I've been caught off guard by a sudden onslaught of deja vou moments where my children allow me to relive my own childhood holidays.
It's surreal to suddenly be standing there, and to feel like I'm five years old again, waiting for Christmas morning.
(Not that it's hard to see myself at about five--Punk is a clone of me after all.)
But I could see my Daddy, bushy mustache and white t-shirt, coffee in hand, watching me bang on a baby grand piano toy.
Or my mom, hovering just like I do now, over my brother and I as we tore through wrapping and ooh'd and ahh'd.
I can see my grandparents, grandpa on the floor playing, granny always nearby for a hug or a spare hand.
And I know my babies are having these same experiences, but with slightly different players.
The Man has the coffee in hand, no mustache or white shirt, gearing up to do battle with all batteries and fastenings those damnable manufacturers use to tie toys into boxes.
My mom is hovering, but as a grandma, ready with hugs and laughter.
There is another grandma and grandpa, on the floor and ready to play.
And there is me. Making it happen. Sitting back and watching it all unfold and knowing I did good by the smiles on little faces.
It's disconcerting the moment you realized these same scenes are played out time and again, mirroring my own childhood in such a way that, one day, the heathens will have that moment of deja vou and know they are the continuation of a holiday tradition they had no idea was being made.
And, that, despite everything, is a joy I can truly feel, knowing I"m just the temporary keeper of a legacy that was started long ago.
Merry Christmas. Happy Holidays. Blessed Be.