Four years ago today, Rosebud was born. Because she was at risk for aspirating meconium, they whisked her away and had her at the opposite end of the room before I could see her. They’d announced that she was a girl and I was laughing and crying and feeling my now-empty belly jiggle with every motion.

In what felt like a mere matter of seconds, they’d cleared her up and lifted her a la Stanley Cup for me to see.

I remember, vividly, the jolt of electricity that ran through me at that instant. A flicker of lightening across my nerve endings, a jolt of energy as I realized they were holding my child. My glorious little baby with her perfectly groomed cap of hair and her preciously perfect little body.

From that moment on, she has demonstrated a ferocious dedication to her own mind and her own ideas - which is great if it happens to coincide with what I think she should be doing. This is slightly less the case if we happen to differ.

We differ often. And as much as it maddens me, makes me despair of my own sanity and causes me to wonder how on earth we’re going to survive the teen years, I also know, on some level, that this determination to find her own way is something that needs to be nurtured and cherished. I know that if we can successfully help her manage her passionate nature and yet keep that spark alive, there will be no power on earth that can stop her or bring her down.

Rosebud is also the toughest child I’ve ever encountered. She will wipe out, faceplant on the ground, puke miserably and all the while stubbornly refuse to cry or seek help. In fact, she will usually insist immediately that she’s okay. Even those rare moments that an injury causes her to cry, she’ll only suffer to be held and rocked for milliseconds before she’s off and running again. In fact, she has been noticeably sick a grand total of five or six times in her entire life thus far, and of those times, only once has it been enough to bring her low.

She’s also not a child who gives up. She’ll keep trying and trying and trying at something until she gets it right. Sure, she’ll make noises of irritation and occasionally, drift into dramatic performances of despair, but she never stops trying.

Rosebud is a growing language expert. There is precious little we can do now to avoid her understanding exactly what’s going on, short of spelling. And we’ve only got a little window of time left before that’s gone, too. CH noted, upon her last visit, that it’s now possible to have grown-up style conversations with her. It’s true. I fully expect her future teacher, upon meeting her, to blink rapidly and seek reassurance from me that this child is, in fact, only four years old.

She’s unshy, she knows how to laugh at herself and she’s truly funny. She cracks jokes and creates new word combos that demonstrate a lightening wit living underneath that mop of hair - which she consistently refuses to have anything done with (at least by me. My own mother appears to have a magic touch in getting both girls to submit to hairstyling).

She’s worn something other than dresses precisely three times over the course of the whole summer, and only then if I put them on her before she’s had a chance to fully wake up, and is sunny mooded enough to ignore it. It’s at odds with her otherwise non-girly girl ways, but somehow, that inconsistency suits her.

I adore this child. I love to kiss and pat her beautiful cheeks and gather her up to rock her. It comforts us both. I love that she’s a brave eater and will only refuse a food if she’s not in the mood. She’s eaten raw onions, hummus and spicy salsa like it’s nothing.

And now, my toddler is gone. She’s a preschooler now. While I may miss the sweetness of the malapropisms and toddler mispronunciations, I can’t help but love and admire who she is now.

My girl at four. Can’t wait to see her take on the broader world in school.