In a few days, you will be four. The age of perfection. The age of saying things as they are. Of doing things as they should be done. I should be delighted, but strangely, I am not. I love it when you say things the way the way they are not. I already miss hippopotis, which has now become hippotenuse, and might soon become hippopotamus. You used to say emitet, now you say elephant.
Four is the age of being conscious, they say. The age of being politically correct and wanting to be friends with people who don’t want to be friends with you.
I don’t know what milestone years are. I have never kept a track of whether you were doing age-appropriate things. It has never bothered me. All I knew was that you were fun on a daily basis and you brought out the child in me. The child I was mostly exhilarated to find.
You wore my dresses, my shoes, my jewelry, you turned my dupattas into saris and gowns, you twirled me and pretended to lift me up, like a ballet dancer and it reminded me, this is how I was as a child. I too wanted to be a dancer, although I am sure I wasn’t as graceful as you.
People asked me why I let you wear your hair long, or try nail polish or wear pink, or my bangles and dresses and I smiled. It never bothered me. It still doesn’t.
Today we found Gia’s hairband in your toys and you said you wanted to return it to her. No, you said you will put it on her and she will turn into a boy. And then she will put her hair-band on you and you will turn into a girl. Do you want to be a girl, I asked you. Yes, I want to be a girl, you said. I don’t know what to say to you except that I really like you as a boy.
May be you still remember that I called you Tia when you were in my belly. But I am happy that you are a boy, you sort of equalize me, I don’t know how to explain it. I have never felt so girl as I have after you came. So thank you for bringing me to me. And thank you for all the twirls.