“Use two hands,” I used to say. I don’t have to say it often anymore. She knows when to use two hands. For hugs, for spreading open to the world, for twirling, for riding her two-wheeler.

Two hands to paint bold masterpieces of my heart, and, in measured time, two hands to hold her work back so as to cast a critical eye. Two hands to add a dab, a spot, a splosh.

Two hands hold onto mine because she wants to dance and for her, dancing is largely variations on Ring Around the Rosie.

Two hands to boop my nose, alternating index fingers. Two to both welcome and fend off the new dog.

Two hands to get into and out of the car, lifting herself, straining, balancing.

Two hands to scratch sometimes. Her skin, beautiful, smooth, lit from internal stellar remnants, gets itchy and she attacks with a vengeance.

Two hands to talk. Expressive and hilarious. Her gestures and her jokes are often funny for the wrong reasons, but also for the right ones.

Two hands for kindness and perception, lent in yard work or meal prep or carrying things when our arms are laden.

Two hands to gather up all her friends and create some sort of stuffed animal fort. Every night. And she sleeps stone-still among them, a reverse ET where she is the doll.

Two hands still to show “so big.”

Two hands to sweep glorious, fat sausage doll curls off her shoulders, out of her face, to lift them high on her head so she can focus on tasks at hand.

And now when we ask her age, it takes two hands for her to show the world how many trips around the sun it’s been.

Happy sixth, Boo Boo.