Yesterday my baby turned 5. Five.
It’s bittersweet, five. My little five-year-old is a study in contrasts. She is fiercely independent and wants nothing more than to be a teenager (hold me) but she still needs her mommy fix. I love nothing more than when she snuggles up in my lap and nuzzles her velvety little face into my neck. I’ll take it as long as I can get it. She’s spunky and bright and inquisitive. She loves Barbies and baby dolls and play-doh and all things pink.
We had a little birthday celebration for her on Saturday night with family. The one and only thing she wanted for her birthday was a “Barbie head.” It’s all she’s talked about for the past two weeks. Needless to say, Mommy went to Target in search of a Barbie head and wrapped it in pretty pink paper.
It was a hit.
At her request, I made Curry Chicken Pot Pie for dinner and my tried and true chocolate cake (recipe off the back of the Hershey Cocoa box) for dessert.
A cake decorator, I am not. Thus the generic Ariel candle on top. No one seemed to mind. It was moist and delicious, and that’s what counts, right?
Now, R proudly announces to everyone she sees, “I’m five!”
And this morning, she asked, “Am I five-and-a-half yet?”
Don’t push it, kid. Mommy’s just getting used to five.
Happy birthday, precious one!