Sometimes I forget you’re only six.
You wake up too early thanks to a little sister with a big set of lungs. You go at a speed I can’t even fathom, and pack more into a day than I do in a week. And then you want to stay up just a bit later than everyone else because you’re older, and that’s a right you’ve earned.
And at the end of it all, you are so tired. Life just wipes you out.
You and I snuck off to my bedroom to watch that Nova about monarchs that we’ve watched a zillion times. I left for a bit to help Tom get Shep and Ellery into bed, and when I came back, you were out cold.
It’s when you sleep that, despite those long legs, I remember you are still so small. There you were, dwarfed in our big bed.
I need to remember this on days when I set expectations too high. You melt down often. On days when we’re walking down different paths.