Although we barely slept and our spanking new, right-out-of-the-box parenting skills had yet to be broken in, I think that the first year was the easiest. So straight-forward, problems all so easily solved. The second year was physical. She tantrumed and flailed, bolted in parking lots and fought a winning battle against harnesses of any kind. Years three and four were achingly emotional, so many of life’s joys and pains freshly discovered and experienced. Independence was exerted, freedom was explored, feline mortality was heart-breakingly understood but not accepted.

And now, several months in, I’d have to say that the fifth year can be described in one word. One innocent little grouping of letters that doesn’t look like much, but packs a serious wallop. Attitude.

There are many demands. Much whining. It has been made very clear that Mommy has no earthly clue. She has aged ten years in a few short months and I am suddenly dealing with an adolescent that I thought I had ages to prepare for. She is so grown up, saying things like, “Why, thank you!” and “Daddy, could you please remove this strange-looking device from my pony’s tail?” But it is glaringly apparent that although we are needed for general chores and food preparation, we as parents are really only there to annoy her. “Mo-ohhhhhhhhm!” I hear several times a day. Feet firmly planted, tiny hands on non-existent hips, she is comically serious. But I do not dare laugh. It would only prove my ineptitude.

I would write more, about how I have decided to choose my battles and how it seems that the little one, terrifyingly, seems to be aging even more quickly than her big sister and already I have heard a small voice full of irritation calling out “Momeeeeeeeee!”…

…but it seems that the peaches are touching the strawberries on their plates and this is a serious issue that must be dealt with immediately.