Yesterday marked a pretty big milestone in my life as a mother: my youngest child turned four. Four is my promised land. It is when I officially mark the end of toddlerhood and rest easy in the knowledge that we are cruising toward five, which in my book is pretty much the beginning of personhood.
I planned to sit down and write a birthday post for my girl, but between birthday breakfast wish granting, present opening, surprise swimming, and cake baking, I never got the chance. I will say that in true Genevieve style, she walked in to see the platter of perfectly roasted chicken legs she had requested and said "That's not the chicken I wanted for my birthday dinner!" Apparently what she wanted was one of the frozen breaded chicken patties SAM likes to keep around for workday lunches. Okay, easy enough to remedy. She ate all of her patty and about five helpings of the buttered curly noodles she'd actually picked out at the grocery store and then, at dessert, asked me extra sweetly "Mommy, is it okay if I just eat the ice cream?" Never mind that I made the world's most freakishly uniform chocolate layer cake with homemade fudgy icing.
So instead of a birthday post, this post is where I officially walk off the boat with shaky sea legs, bow down, and kiss the ground. I made it. My fourth child is now four. I thought I would have four children, then that I wouldn't, then I did. I thought I would never get to hold that baby, but I did. There were times when I thought I would not live through her being three, but I did. And on all counts, I'm so glad.