Thoughts on being Fiona's dad, on her 4th birthday

So, my daughter turns 4 years old today.
Holy crap.
Time, as they say, flies.

She is, to get right to it, everything we could have asked for, and everything we dreamed of, in a child.

At every stage, we were given bad odds or doom and gloom.
Odds are 3-1 against us getting pregnant and carrying to term.
Many months in, we were told there was 10% chance of her having special needs. Then it was all about how kids who were conceived as she was had higher percentage of slow development in sitting up by themselves, etc etc etc.

We spent so much time… Worried.
Geezus we worried.
And when we’d start to relax, just a bit, we’d get hit with the next scary statistic, unreliable test result, asshole doctor… We HATED the asshole doctor...

But then, all the sudden… there she was. And was on the small side and maybe not 100% “done” before she came out, and she didn’t sleep, and wouldn’t let us put her down (as if either of us wanted to…), and cried a lot, and she was… perfect.

And as she grew, and we continued to not screw up too bad; we watched her like a hawk for slow development and she always seemed to develop at the slow end of range and she was… perfect.

She tripled her birth weight in the first year, exceeding expectation; her doctor was thrilled for the 4 minutes he spent with us, $20 please, and we rejoiced.

And we were constantly tired, and anxious, and worried, and excited and happy and felt like the luckiest people in the world. The really tired luckiest people in the world, but still...

And then she started talking, a lot, while steadfastly refusing to walk, and we had pictures of her CRAWLING off to university at age 14. That ought to keep her from dating, at least...

And we started to realize what a great sense of humor she had, how she asked very wise questions for a two year old, and that we should really be writing down a lot of what she said. So we started to do so, and she was perfect.

And we realized that while she was really smart, she was also a complete dreamer, and tended to be off in her own world a bit, and we worried about it, and asked her teachers about it, and they chuckled and patted us on the head, basically, and told us we really needn’t worry.

And now she’s four, and utterly charming, and sweet, and pretty darn even-keeled, and a good sport and a great traveler, and is now singing along to the music I used to sing along with, to put her to sleep, when she was a baby.

And she makes me laugh, all the time.

Except when she very earnestly tells me that I’m being crabby, and she doesn’t like it when I’m crabby, and maybe I should stop being crabby. Then she makes me cry, a little, though she doesn’t know it.

But I stop being crabby, at least for a little while.

My daughter’s four years old today, and she is sure she grew taller overnight.
She might be right.

And she was excited to go to camp/ preschool today because there would be yoga, and because she got to take stuff to give to her classmates, and this is HUGE, obviously.

Tonite there will be cake and presents and family, and I’ll likely not sleep well because I STILL have an ear tuned to hear her in the night. Tomorrow there will be ½ dozen four year olds at my door for a “Girl Pirate” party, and it’s going to be loud, and chaotic, and perhaps head-ache inducing and… Perfect.

And I still feel like the luckiest man in the whole world, when I think about it.

Happy birthday, darlin’