I love Isabelle. We speak the same language. We often laugh together
as others look on confused. I sometimes laugh at her naughtiness when
I had the following conversation with Belle the night before she
turned four. It was actually more of a monologue. On a side note, I
had a dictionary that defined monologue- see soliloquy and soliloquy-
see monologue. That was the whole definition. I had to consult a
second dictionary. I mean- come on people.
I am on the couch with Izzy and Isaac and Wendy. I grab Izzy and tell
her, "I love three-year old Izzy. Three-year old Izzy is the best.
She is funny and pretty and silly and energetic. I am going to miss
three-year old izzy." I give her a long hug and kiss her cheek. She
does not enjoy being kissed as much since I grew out my beard. Last
month she begged me to shave it off. She asked me a dozen times. One
afternoon I tiptoed upstairs with her (Wendy told me I was not allowed
to shave) and shaved it off with Belle watching. She stared
fascinated as the whiskers fell into the sink. When I was done, she
took my face in her hand, smiled at me, and said "Daddy, you look
weird." I cracked up. Then quickly grew my beard back.
"But, I am so excited to meet four-year old Izzy. Four-year old Izzy
is going to be even better than three year old Izzy. She is going to
grow so big and learn so much. She is going to be so fast and so
smart. I can't wait to meet her. Good night three year-old Izzy.
Thanks for making life so fun." I feel a little meloncoly at the fact
that my girl is growing up, but it is mixed with excitement, because
she gets better and better. I glance over at Wendy and she is tearing
up. I am feeling tender and nostalgic. I do not know if I have ever
felt nostalgia for the present before.
"Good night three-year old Isabelle. I will never see you again."
Huh, I think, that is sort of a turn for the morbid. My mouth keeps
moving, though. "When three-year old Belle goes to sleep, Four-year
old Belle is going to get her." Wendy's near tears are replaced with
surprise. And yet, my brain is not done. "Four-year old Isabelle is
going to kill her," I hear myself say. Surprise turns to shock. My
feelings of tenderness are invaded by guilt. What sort of dad makes
that joke? My guilt is interrupted, though, by the loud belly
laughter of Isabelle.
I captured these on the rainy eve of her 4th birthday.
BLUE LILY | Lifestyle Photographer | Salt Lake City, Utah