I’m not entirely sure how this

became four.

How a helpless, sweet, do-nothing lump of peachy cheeks and juicy baby thighs could become the force of nature that is Sage.

Sage, you are a confident, independent, self-assured human being–for four, or any age. Trust me, as one who has been through quite a few of those ages. Your confidence is on brilliant display through your humor, your curiosity, your challenge of conventions.

Only you could sleep with a cross-dressing rag doll named Diego. Only you could name your animals Huntz, Herrika and Pukebok. Only you could decide that you don’t want to be Wendy, you want to be Peter Pan. Or Charlie Bucket. Or Woody. Or the Bandersnatch. Only you could look at a pack of older kids at the playground and tell them you’re making up a new game, and here are the rules. Only you can’t be bribed with dessert.

Only you could say you don’t want to eat steak because it tastes like muenster cheese.

And when you giggle, there’s no sound like it in the world. 

You challenge me, Sage. Every day. You don’t offer affection easily or indiscriminately. You don’t take words at face value, even from grown-ups–everything is negotiable in your world. It’s frustrating. And it’s wonderful.

It is a sign of the four year-old (and fourteen year-old, so help me) that you are to be.

I hope four is everything it can be and everything it should be. Even if you don’t want to be four. Even if you told me you only want to be three. Or six. Or never grow up at all, just like Peter Pan.

Happy birthday, Sage. God, I love you.