The longer I parent, the more I understand the weird things my parents did.
Anna turned 3 last week and I felt compelled to verbally march her through the day she was born, hour-by-hour, as if she cared. Just like my parents always used to try to do on my birthday. Kids don’t care. I kept reminiscing sentimentally and wanting to pull her into it. “Remember when you were born? Wasn’t that so cool?”
She’s 3 and she’s all snark and has all the words, so her reaction was something like, “Leave me alone, woman. Tell me about this cake we’re commissioning daddy to build.”
She’s amazing and I’m so insanely proud she’s my kid. She’s always been a combo of cute and criminal, a little blond feisty tornado. It’s awesome. She’s focused and intense, like a laser beam that burns a hole in the sun just for funsies. She has a terrifyingly quick mind and her retention of info is mystifying. I’m almost positive she has my ATM code and SS# memorized. She sings all the time. She loves and plays hard. She hates to sleep because it’s harder to terrorize villagers from her bed.