Things Phoebe has said this week:
"I can't see! I'm bald!"
"I have servants to make sure that I can always have peaceful privacy in my life."
"Allow me to introduce you to my daughters, Shifta and Jaleesa."
"I fell down and hurt myself! It hurts terrible much. It hurts a million times much!"
"I said no! A-R-G-T spells no!"
"Would you like to sample some of my lip gloss? I have Strawberry Sparkle, Raspberry Rainbow, Cherry Surprise, and Blueberry Sunrise."
"This is my pretend dog Finn. She's a Goldest Becheever."
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This Fourth of July -- two days before Phoebe's birthday -- she and I sat outside while our neighbors set off a pretty impressive, and possibly illegal, fireworks show. Phoebe sat on my lap and exclaimed over each one -- "Look! That one's purple! Ooh, that was a nice big green one, Mommy!" In the (sometimes long) delay between explosions, she'd get off my lap and dance around on the driveway, talking to herself, spinning around, making up stories about princesses and moonbeams and magical unicorns. At one point she ran over and sang, "Daddy is the best daddy, and Mommy is the best mommy, and Mallory is the best sister, and I am the best Phoebe, in the world!" and gave me a kiss and ran off to dance some more.
Watching her, I realized how rare these displays would become -- how the time was running out on this innocence, this lack of self-consciousness, this complete joy in her own self-expression. Not too long from now, she won't want to sing in front of me, or dance when the neighbors are watching; certainly there will come a day when she won't think I'm the best of anything. Childhood is like a firecracker -- a bright flash, and then it's gone.
I wish I could bottle it up, her songs and her giggles and her funny mistakes, the weight of her on my lap, the feel of her arms around my neck. But I can't. All I can do is smile, and love her, and watch her grow.
"I can't see! I'm bald!"
"I have servants to make sure that I can always have peaceful privacy in my life."
"Allow me to introduce you to my daughters, Shifta and Jaleesa."
"I fell down and hurt myself! It hurts terrible much. It hurts a million times much!"
"I said no! A-R-G-T spells no!"
"Would you like to sample some of my lip gloss? I have Strawberry Sparkle, Raspberry Rainbow, Cherry Surprise, and Blueberry Sunrise."
"This is my pretend dog Finn. She's a Goldest Becheever."
---------------------------------
This Fourth of July -- two days before Phoebe's birthday -- she and I sat outside while our neighbors set off a pretty impressive, and possibly illegal, fireworks show. Phoebe sat on my lap and exclaimed over each one -- "Look! That one's purple! Ooh, that was a nice big green one, Mommy!" In the (sometimes long) delay between explosions, she'd get off my lap and dance around on the driveway, talking to herself, spinning around, making up stories about princesses and moonbeams and magical unicorns. At one point she ran over and sang, "Daddy is the best daddy, and Mommy is the best mommy, and Mallory is the best sister, and I am the best Phoebe, in the world!" and gave me a kiss and ran off to dance some more.
Watching her, I realized how rare these displays would become -- how the time was running out on this innocence, this lack of self-consciousness, this complete joy in her own self-expression. Not too long from now, she won't want to sing in front of me, or dance when the neighbors are watching; certainly there will come a day when she won't think I'm the best of anything. Childhood is like a firecracker -- a bright flash, and then it's gone.
I wish I could bottle it up, her songs and her giggles and her funny mistakes, the weight of her on my lap, the feel of her arms around my neck. But I can't. All I can do is smile, and love her, and watch her grow.
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