My granddaughter is four. I have splendid memories of when my children were that age. We rambled at the beach, and in the exhibits of local museums, and made frequent use of the slides at the park. It is probable that there were skirmishes too but my memory has a screening tendency. Which is just as well. 

Chara learned to read when she was four. Not because I imparted the knowledge to her, in fact I was stunned to discover it. We settled on the couch with the usual pile and rather than me translating letters into words she began to read to me. She also had a burgeoning sense of style, and used a ruler to make sure that her barrettes were equidistant from her part. I still  bow to her fashion sense thirty five years later. 

Olly has her own tastes which revolve around sparkle and shades of pink. Her other grandmother indulges these with good effect. 

It is a blessing to have Olympia in my life and to love her. She probably has no idea how much I think of her, and savor pictures. But that is how it should be. Her mornings are better spent exploring paint, and swings, and learning the names of kids in her class. But thinking of her is a sweet part of my day. 

Not only that, I find great delight in the care she gets from her mom. The one who no longer uses a ruler for her hair, and who mostly reads text on screens rather than picture books. Words are my paint, but they fail me when I try to express the feeling of witnessing someone you love love someone you love. 

See how inadequate that sentence is?