You got a hair chop this month. You've been asking if you can get your hair cut short, "LIKE A BOY. LIKE DADDY." And I pushed back because I don't think that would necessarily be the best look on you. So, we compromised (which, as an aside, is one of your new favorite words, as in "Come on, let me have another cookie. COMPROMISE.") You got several inches taken off of your curly locks, and now you go around telling people you have a hairstyle like a two-year-old. Every day, you ask me if it's still short.
In many ways, though, you're such a big girl. You're so good at occupying yourself with books and toys, making gigantic castles and towers with your MagnaTiles and wooden blocks. You love to play music on your keyboard. You dress yourself every morning, usually in amusing combinations of layers, which is very San Francisco of you.
I got a wheelchair on Monday, and I'm still adjusting to that fact. At first, I was very unhappy that I needed it, but then you and I took it outside and went around the block together. We rode in circles through our courtyard as fast as we could, laughing, and practically draining the battery in the process. You pointed out to me that it was the first time in a long time that we were outside alone together. You said that it was special. And it was.