My 4-year-old is having the summer of her life. She’s home with Dad, spends as much time as possible at the pool or the beach, and is sporting a pretty impressive tan.
I’m not jealous at all.
She is an absolute firecracker. Just in the last week, she’s gone from being the sweetest little thing, smiling, cuddling and constantly telling me she loves me, to transforming into a miniature tornado determined to antagonize her brother and scream at the top of her lungs whenever we tell her to stop. There really doesn’t seem to be much middle ground.
She does make me laugh every single day.
Like many kids, she’s absolutely addicted to Band Aids. A Band Aid is an instant cure all. Stick one on and, voilà, completely healed.
The other day she had the tiniest scrape imaginable and was convinced she needed a Band Aid immediately. She was limping dramatically around the car and insisted someone carry her.
And honestly, every situation requires a Band Aid.
Fall off the bike and scrape your knee? Band Aid.
Notice a tiny dot of what may or may not even be blood? Band Aid.
Find a week old bruise? Believe it or not, Band Aid.
My mom bought the kids a giant assorted decorative tin of Band Aids. I hate that box. It’s like one of those confetti poppers. The second you open it, Band Aids explode across my bathroom or living room floor.
Zephie, of course, loves it. So many colors. So many sizes. So many choices.
I hid it for a while, but she always found it. My sister in law confirmed the exact same thing happens with the identical box at her house with her four kids, so apparently this is just part of the parenting experience.
Zephie is also pretty smart. Maybe a little too smart.
Now, I know every parent says that, but my little blonde haired, blue eyed girl is smart, almost to the point of being a smart aleck.
Lately she’s started to understand the concepts of time and, unfortunately, life and death.
Like most kids, she’s obsessed with birthdays and constantly wants to know when hers is. But she’s also figured out that she’s young and other people are not.
For example, she knows my Grandpa Marvin turns 99 next month. She loves Grandpa Marvin, but because she understands how old he is, she frequently reminds us that “Grandpa Marvin is going to die soon.”
And when I say frequently, I mean everyone gets reminded. My mom has had to gently confirm more than once that, yes, someday Grandpa Marvin will die.
Then Zephie moves right down the age list. Grandma? She’ll die someday too, but not quite as soon as Grandpa Marvin.
Apparently she’s got us all on a timeline. She even understands that her parents aren’t exactly spring chickens anymore.
The other day, for what felt like the millionth time this summer, I was begging the kids to pick up after themselves. Put the dishes in the sink. Throw away the wrappers. Clean up the toys. I finished my speech by saying something about Mom getting tired of picking up after everyone.
Without missing a beat, the 4-year-old chimed in.
“Me and Jackson need to learn to clean up because Mom and Dad are going to die and we’ll have to do it.” Well, I guess that’s one way to look at it.
If that line gets even one fruit snack wrapper into the garbage, I’ll take it.
Life with little Zephie is a constant mix of joy, frustration and mild panic. So far this summer we haven’t misplaced her for any extended period of time, which feels like a victory.
But there’s still a month left.
