We spent the weekend away from home and I could tell you were a little bit worried that we would forget your birthday. When we got back home yesterday, I had to run to Target for some things.
Some last minute gifts.
The soccer shorts you requested.
When I walked in the door, you glanced at the laundry detergent and toilet paper in my hands and you wanted to know,
"What took you so long?"
"Is that all you bought?"
"If that's all you bought, then why were you gone so long?"
Your brow was furrowed and there was worry in your eyes. You thought we wouldn't remember. I could tell.
I could tell because you are my old soul of daughter. My all-knowing one. The one wise beyond her years. Your intuition was in overdrive.
I kissed away your furrowed brow and squeezed you tight. I wanted to tell you right then and there that I had presents tucked away in the car and that I was waiting for you to go to bed so I could bake your chocolate cake and tack up the "Happy Birthday" banner and hang the red and pink streamers.
You said you were tired and that you wanted to go to bed so that your birthday would be here quicker, the same thing you say on Christmas Eve.
You were asleep within minutes.
And I wrapped presents and baked and frosted your cake and put lots of sprinkles on it just how you like it. I got up on chairs and hung the streamers. I moved the banner three times because I wasn't happy with how it looked until it was just right. I arranged your cake and your card and your presents on the table and shut the lights and went to bed.
And in the morning, you were eight.