Today you are fifty seven months old.

Before I forget, and how could I!, this month, you cut your hair. Yes, technically, YOU cut your hair. But then we had it cut professionally, as well.

My stance on hair cutting for babies is that hair should do its thing until the baby decides it's time for a trim. We've floated the idea past you a couple times, but you were always adamant that you liked your hair the way it was, and so we let it grow. And grow. Fifty six months of growth, to be exact. Then one day you said you'd like it cut. And you said it again a few days later. And again. So you and I sat down and looked at what a cut on someone your size would look like, and we established that you'd like something shoulder length.

Then you decided this was all taking much too long, and you took the scissors you'd just begun to be proficient with, and you did a little trimming yourself. Very subtle in looks, but a strong, clear statement of intent.

As with all things we do in this family, your first cut happened at home. A preschool mama who is a professional came over and had you trimmed and blown out in no time at all.

The best part? You are so, so proud and happy with your haircut. That's the best part.

As we put up our Christmas tree this year, I had one of those moments where I'm suddenly aware that your mother isn't coming home; I am your mother. It was one of those times when I'm wondering how the heck I know how to stand up a chopped down tree inside a house. It's not as if my parents sat me down one day and taught me how to do this; it's something I've figured out because (not that it's difficult) I've been taught how to problem solve and think analytically. This is one of those times when I wonder how good a job I'm doing at teaching you these things. Not the literal-putting-up-a-tree things, but, rather, the more nebulous-thinking-for-yourself things, which will take you much further in life than if I simply taught you tree-standing.

There are some days when I can't believe anyone let me be a mother. Not that I'm bad at it, just that it has such great responsibility. I hope I'm doing it well enough.

Happy fifty seventh Monthday.