Somewhere in the last week of sickness-houseguests-graduate school-life we lost something I knew I would miss terribly once it was gone. I was right. I am teary even writing about it, but that is me, and that is this week, the week leading up to Ani's fourth birthday (warning: this blog will be inundated with photos of my child. I mean more photos that usual).
The dutch is gone.
(My sister is crumpling into a little ball right now; I haven't had the heart to tell her.)
The sweet way A. has said "just" for her whole speaking life has officially been dropped for the newer, older model. She stubbornly held onto it, despite the giggles from her sister and cousin, in spite of the coaching (from the sister and the cousin). But something about this last week flipped the switch, without ceremony, and without regard to the mother's deep sentimentality. No more "dutch" cheese, please. No more "I dutch love you so much" and wondering how the Dutch got it so good.
I know, I know, melodrama at its worst. But how I will miss the sound of that word.