“I’m only four, you know.”

Abby reminded me of that fact last Wednesday after I asked her to clean her room. I didn’t answer, but I was thinking, “Yes, I know you’re only four, and it’s kind of a precarious age . . . you’re irrestistibly cute, running around in your spring-green leisure suit with satin bows on the pockets, and bright green bows on top of your pigtails. I want to swoop you up in my arms and plant a kiss on your rosy little cheek. And yet I also want you to be so grown-up: make your bed, feed the gerbil, practice reading, brush your teeth, set the table, be nice to Katie, hold Alex while I shower . . . and the list goes on.

"You're somewhere between the curly-haired toddler who snuggled in my lap and rarely left my sight and the long-legged, inquisitive girl who will soon start kindergarten."

I suspect that much of parenting is a balancing act between holding on and letting go. I’m just beginning to feel that tug a little more acutely as I picture Abby stepping onto that yellow school bus in five short months. I think I’m ready; I think she's ready. But I also think I need to treasure this waning time with my preschooler . . . even if her bedroom strongly resembles a rummage sale gone awry!