Saturday, May 28, 2011
Happy fifth birthday, Genevieve. We made it.
I kissed the ground when you turned four, but it turns out that was a bit premature. My last baby, you seem determined to stretch out your babyhood for as long as possible.
For five years you have been my constant companion. Part merciless dictator, part goofball, you can make me pull my hair out or giggle with delight. Even as I write this post, you are trying to force me to come color with you. You just flung your body across a chair in a dramatic gesture of impatience. That seems about right.
There was a time when I couldn't imagine having you, number four, and then I had to imagine not having you, and I then knew that you were meant to be my baby.
In the past five years I have threatened more than once to sell you to the gypsies, or else run away with them myself. I'm still considering it, to be honest. But I probably won't. It helps that whenever you are upset or tired or overwrought, all you really want is to curl up against my chest and breathe in the smell of your mama. I guess I'll keep you.