48 Months

It was E’s fourth birthday last week. Four. I can’t believe she’s four. Some days it seems she’s much older, some days it seems she’s still a baby. Since M came along I think I have taken for granted that she’s only been in this world for four years. That’s less time than One Direction have been doing...  whatever it is that they do.

I expect too much of her. I expect her to be level headed and reasonable 100% of the time, when really, how can I expect that of her when I can’t achieve it myself?  And I've been around 29 years longer. After a day of whining, squabbles, refusals and demands I sometimes can’t wait for bedtime, only to look at her sleeping and feel that swell of tears behind my eyes just thinking how perfect and beautiful she is. How clever she is. How funny and, yes, talented she is. No, I refuse to hear the bum notes in her rendition of Let It Go. Or that she says 9, 10, eleventeen. That’s just logical. A perfect rainbow scribbled over in black crayon? Surely a comment on the political and economic climate of the day.

I am sure most mothers would pick certain things about their children they would like to... um... ‘tweak’. Upgrade. I would take out the whining audio and replace it with a sweet, quiet voice as the default setting for example. But really, doesn’t she have the right to whine? She’s four. I’ll say that again. Four. 48 months. That’s a very short space of time to learn how to eat, speak, walk, use a pencil, use the toilet, be polite, keep clean, use a scooter, ride a bike. It’s exhausting.

I looked at E yesterday as she napped on the sofa following a particularly grueling three hours at nursery school and was struck by a memory of coming home  at that age. Feeling that wash of relief and exhaustion. Being back in the family home, warm and safe. I realised how fast she is growing up and how much her small shoulders have to carry. Not only starting education, but being a big sister – the ‘grown-up girl’ in the family. That’s a whole lot of responsibility. There’s toys to be fetched, weaning to be helped with (‘No, darling, I’m not sure M would like a fizzy cola bottle for desert, but thank you.’) toys to be passed down, voices to be lowered during nap time and, worst of all, parents to be shared. Have I mentioned she’s four?

So, in the final minutes before I pick her up from another afternoon at the local school, I am determined to give her a bit more of a break, cut her a little more slack, play princesses with her for longer than the half an hour it usually takes for me to want to tell Elsa where to go.

Until she’s five of course, as that’s really quite grown up enough.