My daughter is 4 now, has been for two months. And, boy, do I feel old.
This was a magic line, turning 4. All of a sudden, she is a kid, not a toddler. She gives me lip, she says she loves me, she sighs, she sings long songs from memory, she draws two-page ocean scenes, and she remembers everything I say and calls me on it.
She just looks bigger, runs faster and gets bored in this floppy, whiny kid kind of way.
I had no idea 4 meant … this. I suppose I thought it happened at 5, when I started kindergarten.
And suddenly I realize that I don’t have two very young children anymore, that I am two short years from not having small children at all.
And, as this blog proves quite clearly, I’ve built up quite the self-image around having small children. That seems a natural conclusion of all this parental leave, all this time off, all this concrete commitment, which then just … ends.
I could care less that I am 37, that 40, while not all that close, is now visible in the medium distance on a clear day.
But I do care about the start of elementary school (which in Sweden means technically 7 but really 6 since kids then go to a kindergarten type place, I gather).
What am I going to do with myself? I just learned all these damn lullabies by heart!