Last night Vivian drew a picture of herself giving someone a tattoo, and wrote that she wanted to be a tattoo artist when she grew up, so my husband took her with him while he got some.
When I got there and wanted to take her to get some Pocky, she didn’t want to leave. She just wanted to watch she said.
Tonight, after finding an interesting book about dinosaurs and learning about the first real finds in the Gobi desert, she said no, I want to be a teacher. Or a paleontologist. I think.
I love the malleability of this age.
I whispered to her that I wanted to be a midwife, somehow, someday, when I grew up, and she looked at me strangely, wondering what that was. I explained that midwives help women figure out how to have their babies, and keep them healthy during their pregnancies.
She looked at me like I had two heads.
Walking, she bobbed and dawdled and talked to the birds, shouting COO COO!! across the street at some disturbed looking pigeons. Her hair swung from side to side as she exuded everything that just plain old fantastic about being 5 and a half. The dirt marks ran up the backs of her black tights, and I smiled, knowing that a clean kid is never one who’s having fun.
This is all countered by the fact that lately she has dreams or…something that leave her crying and screaming for at least an hour-unwilling for whatever reason to talk about it. Maybe it’s the drugs she’s on for a nasty ear infection, maybe it’s growing up, maybe she’s nuts like her mother….
I don’t have an answer for any of it. But she can spot a velociraptor at 20 paces, and that matters.