Dill

Five.  Years. Old.  Five. Years. Young.

My daughter turned five this weekend.  Five.  It must have been some glitch in the time-space continuum because I literally can't grasp that five years ago I was pregnant.  She is my princess-hating, barbie-hating, non-girlie girl, artist in the making.  Her beautiful brown eyes melt my soul.  Her imagination is endless.  Her legs are long.  Her hair is fine.  Her second toe lays slightly under her big toe.  She has a little mole above her right eye.  She sneaks drinks of her dad's pop when he is not watching.  She knows I don't approve but she smiles that smile.  That one smile.  And well, I am a pushover.  She can spell Mason, Mom, Dad, Pop,  Dog and Poop.  Yes, Poop was the 5th word she learned.  We are at that stage, go figure.  In the summer, she spends every single day doing the monkey bars.  She has calluses to show it.  She wants to lose a tooth really bad.  She can't wear flip flops.  When I was pregnant she lied like a taco in my stomach.  Her feet where next to her cheek.  She still sleeps like that.  Her teachers asked me out of concern.  I am fine with it.  She is magical.  She is striking beyond belief.  She hugs her brother and watches over him at school and it makes my heart twinkle. Everything she does twinkles.  I love you sweet Dilly.