You lost your eighth tooth, Sunday at church. The dentist says this will be the last one for a while. You’re thrilled about this.
You are pretty well independent at this point. You have begun making plans for yourself throughout the day, and become upset when those plans get foiled for one reason or another, or bear results you didn’t foresee. (OR when Mom says, “Not right now.” That’s the w o r s t.)
You’re developing your own sense of style. The fashion sense of American Girl, Grace, seems to be your desired outcome. You get hand-me-downs, so Grace ain’t happenin’, but you never complain. You’re terrific.
You are intentional about what you choose at the store, and often spend what seems like hours, carefully browsing the isles for just the right thing. You are really diggin’ your spy kit and have been watchfully investigating what camera you want for your birthday.
You’re still hilarious, and fully aware of you’re hilarity. We needn’t think you’re funny, you’ll laugh enough for the rest of us.
Daddy told you you have a lovely singing voice. You responded, “Yeah, that’s why I want to be a Pop Star.” And then, Mom cried herself right into the fetal position.
I love you, Mae!