Man, the signs are all there that my little kid is growing up. She’s 3 ½ and filling out her first college application. Actually, she’s not 3 ½ anymore. That’s the crazy part. She’s like 3 ¾, and well on her way to 4.
FOUR!
That’s a big kid number, and eons away from being a baby. I think at 4 they start going to cocktail parties and saying things like, “Yes, I did move my money before the recession hit, but unfortunately I put it all in Lincoln Logs. And you know how that market did.”
Clothing sizes that used to fit her don’t anymore, and the other night she actually leaned over her plate as she stuffed a spoonful of couscous into her mouth. Nothing — NOTHING! — fell on the floor.
“Oh my God, Amelie,” I shouted, startling everyone. “That’s amazing!”
She got excited, too … because she thought Santa Claus was behind her.
Normally I would be grumbling about how I need safety goggles when the kid eats, or how it always seems like it’s snowing at the dinner table. The dog would wait patiently by her feet, drooling at the thought of all that would topple off her fork, or plate, or lips.
This night I heard the poor animal give out a sad sigh. The nights of eating good were over.
There are other little snippets of the future, and signs of her evolving into a big kid. Like how she runs, or how her legs have grown long and spindly like a giraffe’s. They flap and flail about as she runs, and I worry those out-of-control appendages might snap off in mid-sprint.
Or how she can read me and deflect things that used to have remarkable effect. That spongy little brain of hers is capable of taking in all that goes on around her, processing it instantly and spitting out focus-group-tested comebacks that are totally disarming.
The other night, she kept goofing off as I desperately tried to get her to go brush her teeth. Finally I threw down the old standby line that USED to work. Only … this night it bounced off her like a bullet made of bubbles.
“Amelie, you have got to get ready for bed,” I told her. “Do you know what time it is?”
Not missing a beat, she shot back in the most deadpan voice, “No. There isn’t a clock in here.”
Where did she come up with that? It wasn’t sarcastic or mean, and it wasn’t the least bit snotty or bratty. Frankly, it came off as if she had moved on to the stage of her life where everything is taken literally — “Uh, seriously dad, I can’t read time!” — or that she finally cracked my code, figured out my tricks and had come up with the wittiest, funniest, most adorable little antidotes to authority.
She’s not a con artist by any means. In fact, suddenly she’s even quite helpful. My wife wasn’t feeling well the other night and when Amelie saw her carrying something through the house, she stopped her: “I will carry that,” the little one said. “You don’t need to carry that.”
Who IS this little thoughtful kid?
Faint little bits of toddler still shine through — she pronounces “squirrel” as “swirl” —but there’s less and less of it. The baby melted away long ago, and now the toddler seems to be succumbing to the heat, too.
I don’t mind it — part of me loves this new stage we seem to be racing toward. But it’s a bit disorienting, and I still haven’t quite grasped that I can now have a full on conversation with my kid that begins with, “So, dad, what did you do at work today?”
I just sit and stare, pondering who this little person is, and wondering when she’s going to start giving ME stock advice.