Jenna turns six next week.
As monumental is this is for her, I haven't been giving it much thought, or have been trying not to. Some kind of denial thing on my part, no doubt. No party planned, just an inkling of doing something special, maybe the weekend after her birthday. No real liquid funds to do it up big, plus that has never been a real goal in our house. We're looking forward to taking her to the zoo for her very first time next week. She will love that--and since we've never been, it ought to be f-u-n for all of us.
The improvisational approach to her sixth birthday on my part has more to do with my not-so-unconscious desire to keep her my little baby forevere than my busy schedule, I'm sure. But this morning was I got an indication of why milestones are attached to birthdays, or why birthdays truly are milestones, at least for children.
For the very first time in the history of this mother and this daughter, Jenna let me sleep in until 10:30 this morning.
Oh. My. Goodness!
10:sweeeet40 to be exact.
She got up on her own, got her self dressed on her own, went downstairs on her own, did two mixed-media art projects that featured beads, straws, crayons, construction paper, and glue. She didn't make a mess. She made art. I heard her dancing around downstairs, while drifting in and out of sleep, knowing something was different but not sure what.
Not until she came in and said, "Mom, the clock saays 10:40, are you going to get up?" I looked at the clock. No lie. It wasn't 7:30, or 8:30, or 9:30. It was 10:40.
I hugged her and told her how big she was to get up all on her own and do her projects. And then I made her the big pan of french fries she'd been drewling for.
If this is six, I'm glad it's here.
Stunned, but glad.
