Yesterday we went to the doctor and sure enough they confirmed what we suspected: Gigi is four.
I'm not sure how it happened but it's true. She is four.
One, two, three, four.
Overdone sentiments about wrinkles in time will be skipped and I'll just go directly to screaming with a generous helping of denial.
We sat in the office for almost an hour discussing complex issues like nutritious food versus heaven sent candy, good touch/bad touch, empathy, and quantum theories of time. For the record, her physical reality is totally molecular and based on how many sleeps until Christmas.
But the important thing in that last paragraph is we discussed these complexities. We. Two doctors, Gigi, and I discussed her milestones and development.
No chasing her around the room, no prying medical equipment out of her hands while I tried to answer their questions, no bribing her to get on the scale and stand up straight (still bribes though to get her double arm jabs because HELLO! NEEDLES! I still need bribes to get needles and I'm four plus a zero). But basically four very complex individuals sat in a room discussing very complex issues and everyone had input and opinions.
Because she is four.