And then, suddenly, without warning (and a mama really deserves a warning), it got a lot more complicated.
Every morning E would complain. This is tight! This hurts here! Stretch these sleeves!
The child dared to have a growth spurt in the middle of a season.
So we bagged all her 3Ts and washed all the 4s-in-waiting (and may I say, God bless 1. grandmothers with out-of-control shopping habits and 2. generous friends with daughters older than mine) and on Monday E ran into her classroom and yelled for all the world to hear: My dress is a FOUR!
This child, you know, she thinks big. So that night she informed me, I wear a size four so that means I'm four years old. And I replied, "you're cute, and you wear a size four, but you're still three years old. But this weekend you'll be three-and-a-half, and that's closer to four. Next week you can say you're three-and-a-half."
No, Mama. I'm SAY-ING that I'm FOUR. Because I wear a size four.
Sometimes there is no room for logic. But she's cute. And evidently, very big.