And Now You Are Four

Oh, Punky. When you turned three, it seemed like a such a big deal. I imagined you'd wake up that first morning of being three without a trace of the toddler you once had been. But even though I cried my eyes out, and even though you immediately began calling yourself "a big girl," and even though you were suddenly using words like "actually" and "probably" at every opportunity, you still looked like a baby. A baby with very, very long hair, but still. Look at those baby cheeks!


Like most other three-year-old girls, you were obsessed for the first part of your threehood with the Disney Princesses. You memorized all their names, owned quite a few of their dresses (and as many taffeta and tulle confections as I could find at the consignment sales), played with princess dolls and princess action figures, read princess books, watched princess movies, ate princess cereal... and yes, you even met the princesses in person. That moment was actually one of the great joys of my life, if you don't count the part where we waited an hour and a half to do it.

Thank God, three also marked the end of potty training (unless you count my new role as Public Potty-er or Interpreter of Poo Poo) and the beginning of some very sassy behavior. (The Great ABC Controversy? Perfect example.) You began asking questions and forming opinions and I found myself in more than a few sticky situations.


Your own real-life princesses this year have been your sisters. You love "hanging out" with them whenever they'll let you, and you think they are the coolest girls in the whole world, ever. You want so badly to be just like them. This picture was taken after you went to see your older sister in a school play. You watched her on the stage with total awe and adoration on your face. When she came home that night, you crawled in her lap and wouldn't leave. She was a superstar and you were her number one fan.


Your imagination is off the charts. Every object in the house has a story and a voice and you spend your days creating elaborate scenarios for your dolls and your stuffed animals and anything else you happen upon. You are so smart that I can't believe it sometimes; you pick concepts up in minutes (whether I want you to or not), from adding and subtracting to writing your letters to learning left from right. You never forget anything. You, um, draw anatomically correct stick figures. Your vocabulary is stunning. Are you gifted? Well, I'm hoping this never comes up when you're older, but I pretty much botched that one up from the get-go. And then I tried to atone. I realize I have some control issues.


At three you joined your first soccer team, coached by your dad. It provided endless fodder for both my blogs. We may never forget George, but thankfully, you will.


You spent most of that season (and the one we're in now, for that matter), playing Ring Around the Rosie on the field and collecting interesting looking leaves. I learned to measure your success based not on the number of goals you (didn't) score, but instead on the way your teammates constantly clamored to play with you and repeatedly called your name, the way you constantly made your way around to hug them and hold their hands, and the compassion you showed others when they were sad, even if they were on another team.


Three was your first full year with your new brother. You adore him, and spend a good part of each day playing with him and making sure he's he's happy. For a while, you thought I was going to keep popping babies out for you year after year, but you seem to have come to terms now with the likelihood that Bruiser will be the last little Ferrier.


You've also come up with more than one clever strategy on how to keep your toys away from him, which is not an easy feat.


Your sweet spirit and energy have been inexhaustible. At three, you've learned to jump, climb, run faster, and go down the Big Slide by yourself. You can play board games (unfortunately). You're a total computer whiz and I can't wait for that first day they put you on the computer in kindergarten and learn that you can already type words, load CD-ROMs by yourself, and find your favorite websites on the Internet. You've also mastered the complex Playstation 2 controller, and literally would play your Shrek games all day every day if we allowed it (we finally had to declare the Playstation "broken." Total lie.). You're the only child I know who loves visiting the doctor; you have your own doctor's kit and often get it out to check our ears and our heartbeats and give us lots of shots. "This won't hurt that much," you say comfortingly before sticking us in the thigh. I'd say that you were going to be a doctor when you grow up, but right now, you have other ideas.


And then, overnight, it seemed, your legs got longer. Your waist grew thinner. You lost just a little bit of the chipmunk in your cheeks. When your second soccer season started, your jersey no longer went to your ankles. I had sort of hoped you would stay my baby forever, but I couldn't deny it. You were growing up.


And now you are four. You have ideas and opinions. Many ideas and opinions. "I'm four," you announced this morning when you went out in the backyard to play, "and I don't need someone to watch me anymore!"

But you know what? No matter how much you grow and how independent you become, you're still my baby. You'll always be my baby. And I'll always watch over you. Always. A few days ago, you hugged me and said, "I love you, Mommy." And then you murmured happily, "You're a genius." And I knew I was raising you right.

Happy Birthday, my precious big girl. I love you so very, very much.