She almost cried in the car on the way home on Thursday. Tears never came but she got that sweet sad look on her face, the one that won't soon exist as the last of her baby fat melts so quickly from her cheeks. Her lip trembled. Her cheeks swelled. She's scared about kindergarten. Hers was a quiet tempest, nerves overflown, and we soothed her with conversation and action items. She turns five on Tuesday, and five is when a girl goes to kindergarten, and suddenly it's on her mind.
Sometimes I forget that L has nerves. She's so confident, so deliberate, quietly cocksure. Her older sister's example is so intense that L's ordinary fears are casually invisible to me. I have to remind myself to monitor her sensitivities; they manifest so quietly by comparison. But that doesn't make them less real.
She wants to get her ears pierced on Tuesday. She wants cupcakes. She wants her birthday party cake to be a ladybug wearing a firefighter jacket with a big 5 on the emblem (some things never change).
She wants to be a big girl. There are still traces of little girl in her, though, but they're swiftly evaporating.