Rory = Sweetie pants

Sometimes I am overwhelmed by Rory's perfect, sweet, girlishness. For instance, last night she ended up in our bed after nightmares. Which meant I didn't sleep, because she flopped like a fish, and then woke up.

Me: Rory, you can sleep in our bed or your bed, but you have to go to sleep.
Rory: Ok. *whispers* Can I make a wish first?
Me: Of course.
Rory: *whispering and getting most of the words wrong* Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, wish I may, wish I might have this wish I wish tonight. Now we whisper our wishes.
Me: Okay, go ahead.
Rory: I wish I could give all my friends a flower.

And then I wanted to smush her with hugs and tell her to never grow up or talk to anyone who looks angsty or like they've ever had a bad day. I don't want her perfect kidness contaminated. Not her wishes (which continued to include "I wish Mom and Dad would let me dig wax out of a candle"), or her delight in jumping over cracks in the sidewalk while she holds hands, or her "You bet I can!" if you ask her to do something.

Sure, she's whiney and dramatic ("But my armpit hurts!!!"), and she is learning about not lying (um, we know you didn't change your underwear, and yes, we're going to check). But some kids already seem to have the weight of the world on their shoulders at four. And Rory's biggest source of grief is when the teacher separates her and her best friend at school because they are giggling and making faces. Or when Gracie lands an unwelcome kiss. Or when her coloring book starts to fall off her lap in the car ("Coloring book, are you SERIOUS!?").

I'm not sure how we did it, but we have this perfect little prototype of undamaged four year oldness. Which feels like a LOT of pressure.

Her mean bear face.

 

 

Update: Rory informed Lila is no longer her best friend. Benny is her best friend forever and ever. Lila was "mean for hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of days."