I have forgotten - repeatedly - in the last month, that Greta is five. When asked - at parties, at the park, by acquaintances, by coworkers, by grocery store check out clerks - how old my charming daughter is, I nearly always tell them four. Or I stand there staring blankly back at them, deep in thought, because I know there is something wrong about the answer four, but I can't bring myself to tell them she's five. I became very attached to four. I loved four. She was a fun four year old. She became very clever through her fourth year. She is insightful about religion and relationships. She is decisive about her style in ways that make me bite my tongue. Often. I didn't want to let four go.
Bye, four.
Five. OK. I guess.
If we must.
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