kiwords

I was in my room, tugging the bedsheets into some sort of order (Clay likes to sleep with the window open, even when it is RILLY RILLY cold, so I tend to respond by crawling up underneath him and mummying myself in blankets, causing me to climb out of bed in the morning and look at the resulting cloth chaos and think, who invited the mosh pit into our bed again last night?), when Sophia came running in.

When I was a little girl, so very many years ago that people used things like record players, I had a record of some book, and I would listen to it and follow along in my book. At the beginning of the record, the fruity voice instructed, "You will know it is time to turn the page when Tinkerbell rings her little bells, like this:" and then there was a light silvery tinkle of bells. My point is that I can almost hear Tinkerbell ring her little bells, just like that, when Sophia runs, so prancing and sprite-like is her step.

Tre strode in behind her, all manly swagger and benevolent smiles. He's becoming so very grown-looking. I'm thinking he should be seen by the pediatrician, because he has these freakishly muscular arms for such a little boy - I mean, he almost looks like a MAN, if you can believe that! Clearly some sort of hormonal imbalance, because he is my sweet little boy, shut up yes he is. He was chuckling over something Sophia had been doing, and wanted to tell me all about it.

I'm sorry, I wish I could remember the anecdote. I'm certain it was charming, and I can almost guarantee that it included Sophia giving that special empress tilt of the head and chirping, "No!" or possibly "Stop it!" That pretty much sums up 99% of Sophia stories these days.

Anyhow, Tre was telling me all about it, and laughing. He sat on the edge of my bed and shook his head.

"I think this is my favorite age yet," he sighed, watching Sophia pull books off my shelf.

This age. Tre, taller than me, nearly a man, smitten with his baby sister and thrilled with his life. Max, a complex blend of wonderful and frustrating. Raphael, a bombastic package of pure boy boisterousness. Sophia, an incandescent little sprite/ruthless despot.

And Jennie, stepping over the line into the world where she is no longer the most important person she sees. In her arms it all starts over again, with tiny, lovely Quentin.

The layers sometimes stun me. I am not enough to know the answers to all the struggles they face, from potty training to lifelong love. But Tre is right.

It is the best age yet. Every one of them.