Isabella says “becept” instead of “except.”
She says “uppost to” instead of “supposed to.”
She says “TimPortant” instead of “Tim Hortons.”
This is all that’s left of my baby.
These three things.
She says them entirely wrong every single time and yet I cannot bring myself to correct her. And, if you know me at all, you’d know that not correcting one of my family members takes a rather large amount of restraint on my part.
(“He came over to my dad and I…”
“Babe, it’s my dad and me.”
“No, Ali. You weren’t there.)
She is growing up far too quickly for my liking. Her soft blonde baby curls — that took her exactly three years to grow — are practically gone and have been replaced by big kid dirty-blond straight layers. That last bit of chub I was holding onto – – her muffin-y hands and feet — has disappeared and has been replaced by big kid fingers and toes; lanky limbs that want to do things like ride bikes and jump on trampolines and play guitar. She puts her hand on her hip and hauls out the heavy attitude while she tells me all about how she promises that she doesn’t make out with her boyfriend at school. Her dresses from the fall have all become tunics and shirts and can only be worn with leggings.
In four short months, my rapidly-growing shortie will be A FIRST GRADER.
Hold me.
I just hope her teacher never corrects her uppost tos and becepts either.
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