On Monday, I will have a six year old. I just. Sigh. No words.
Except I wrote a poem, so I did “word” just a little for my Little Thing.
the floor is lava in 5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1
glittery nail polish on fingers and toes
pink, poofy dresses that pass the twirl test when spun
fluffy kitties, fuzzy blankets, and fabulous bows
noodles and strawberries
cartwheels and splits
Friday night dance parties featuring Katy Perry
a whole box of tissue because of evening sneezing fits
proper nouns are too hard to capitalize
flour measured to perfection to bake cookies from scratch
unwrapping toys like LOL Surprise
funky socks that are mix and match
silky, soft nightgowns worn all day on the weekends
slime experiments made with Borax and Elmer’s Glue
play dates full of giggles with her best girlfriend
the antithesis of the color blue
Happy sixth birthday dear, precious Little Thing.
May your sweet, joyous, and innocent soul forever continue to laugh, dance, and sing.
(Here’s a picture of her birthday cake for her party, which is LOL Surprise doll themed. She decorated it herself with minimal guidance from her nana, who always comes to visit from Illinois for the occasion.)