Why do they have to grow up?

Thing Two turned seven this Saturday. Seven. Years. Old. Holy crap! When did my little girl grow up?

And, as The Husband says, "Seven down, 11 to go!" God, I love that man!

As a mother, it's always a hard thing watching your child grow up, even though you know that you just want to get them out of the house because damn, they are such leeches! Just kidding. But seriously, it really is very hard.

I remember how upset I was when she started walking. No longer did she need me - she was independent, by God, and she was going to go wherever she damn well pleased. Well, at least until she ran into the baby gate. Evil, evil mommy!

Then when she was still a toddler, I could see the baby shape going away, and knew that I was going to lose my baby to this, this child that was going to be a pain in my ass until she moved out of the house, and even long after that. But I distinctly remember the day I made that realization, and I had to go to my room and cry because I knew I would never hold a "baby" that was mine again. She was becoming too grown up. And I didn't want her to.

So, in honor of Thing One gradually becoming a little lady (Ha! Yeah, right. At least she gets straight A's in school. I'm not going to hold my breath on her being lady-like for quite some time.) I'm going to tell one of our favorite stories about her and her childish antics.

You see, Thing One is a blonde. Very, very blonde. When she was born, her hair was clear. All this hair, and you couldn't see it. Because it was so blonde it was clear. Over the years it has darkened some and is not as blindingly white-blonde as it used to be, but it is still very, very blonde. And so is she on occasion.

At the time this happened, Thing Two had just turned four years old. I was at work, and The Husband was at home watching both Thing One and Two. He decided to send them out to do one of their chores - picking up the dog poop from Thing One's dog. Thing One and Thing Two would shovel the poop into a wheelbarrow, and then Thing One would take it and dump it on the far side of the property and then come back for more.

Thing One was taking the wheelbarrow for a dump when The Husband caught Thing Two in the midst of a rather naughty act. She was taking her small shovel, placing the tip against the ground just behind a piece of poo, and then snapping it up, propelling the piece of poo high up into the air . . . and into the neighbor's yard. D'oh! Needing to correct the obviously childish behavior, The Husband heads outside. The following conversation ensues.

"Thing Two, what are you doing?"

"Fringing poo." She can't quite say "flinging" at this stage of the game.

"Okay. *Why* were you flinging the poo?"

(Two little blue eyes dart back and forth, searching the data banks inside her head for a plausible excuse as to why one would "fring" poo into the air.)

"Because I'm blonde?"

Making choking sounds, The Husband comes back inside and then explodes into laughter, out of sight of Thing Two. He calls me up on the phone to relay the story, and as I'm gasping for air making my co-workers wonder what in the hell is wrong with me he says to me, "Honey, we've taught her all she needs to know in this life. All we need to do is find a pastor for her to marry."