Emma Grace turned five on Thursday. She was awake early, before seven, excited about the day. But she had gone to bed early the night before, so there was no chance that she’d sleep in.
It was a lovely day. I made muffins for breakfast, and hers had a “5” candled planted in the top. Later we went to Duke Gardens for a picnic, and this time we remembered to bring old bread to feed the ducks.
Thursday was unbelievably warm, and the children removed shoes and socks and climbed on the rocks and stepped in the water which was, reportedly, cold.
Emma Grace found an indent in one rock that fit her frame perfectly. She called it her throne.
Everyone is the queen on her birthday, right?
So we had panckes for dinner, because the birthday queen gets to pick, and afterward we had a giant chocolate chip cookie that was supposed to be shaped like a football. Emma Grace chose this shape because, she said, “William likes football.” And he does. We all liked the cake.
Then it was time to open presents. She got a new bicycle helmet that came with wrist bands and shoulder and knee pads (which, for a few hours, she called “knee blades,” a mistake she has already corrected, to my real disappointment) and a little fake cell-phone which she declared her favorite gift. When you hit the right button, a female cyborg sings, “Please leave message after the beep. Bye-bye.” We’ve heard the phone say that A Lot.
She also got an adorable t-shirt and a Dora the Explorer magnet set from her Nana, a lite-bright (which I really wanted to get for her because I got one for my fifth birthday), a skirt from Africa sent by her Gransue and Oji, a long-sleeved butterfly shirt and a pretty compact mirror from her Alaska cousins. She was Most Pleased.
So Emma Grace is five. Five. I can’t think how it happened. I remember William counting down the days until he turned five– or rather, I remember his asking me to count down the days. Back in those days I had a four-year-old, a two-year-old, and a five-month-old baby girl, and I was reluctant, even then, for him to turn five. I was reluctant to do this tedious counting down. I did not look forward to the growing up.
But it happens anyway, doesn’t it? And really, it’s not a question of wanting to prevent it, so much as it’s an effort to enjoy it while it lasts.
Does anyone ever realize life while they live it– every, every minute?
No. Saints and poets, maybe. They do some.
— Thornton Wilder, Our Town 
