Before her head hit the pillow last night, she was very clear: "Put my present under my pillow right when I go to sleep. And not a Polly Pocket. Or a Calico Critter." Big happy smile.
She woke up. She was five . . . and a half. It took her a whole six months to get there (which, as you may recall, is a very long time when you're a kid). We're still not quite sure exactly when her half birthday should be. If there was a February 30th, that would be it. There was much debate among the family members, and we finally decided on March 2nd.
At first she didn't see it. I'm not sure how one misses a seven-foot sparkly pink feather boa next to one's pillow, but it took her a minute. And it was love at first -- er -- eventual sight.
Naturally, I assumed she'd add it to her dress-up collection. I was wrong. She promptly named it "Fluffy" and proceeded to drag it around all day like it was some sort of pet.
She insisted that Fluffy should do everything that she did, which included taking a bath. (Thankfully I caught that one in time. Fluffy took a "dry" shower while draped over the curtain rod.) Fluffy also got a bandaid for some feathery wound. (Oh -- and sorry about the feather trail we undoubtedly left during piano lessons, Mom.)
I'll probably be vacuuming up stray feathers for quite some time. But I don't really mind. I know she'll outgrow it long before I'm ready. In a flash, she'll stop naming her feathers and stomping around in cowgirl boots and carrying a rainbow umbrella and demanding peanut butter smeared rice cakes . . . . I don't even want to think about it. No, we'll just stick with our five-and-a-half years for as long as we can. Well, for about six months.