There’s a little girl in Penny’s class who always arrives with armfuls of stuff. A transformer. A wooden crawfish. A princess. A baby doll. Something different every day, thrust into the hands of her teachers.

Penny has never been particularly impressed with stuff. She shares pretty easily. She rarely insists on a particular article of clothing. If “Mr. Bear” is not available at bedtime, she protests, but she gets over it without tears.

So I was somewhat surprised last week when she started adding items to her school bag. First it was a Cookie Monster sticker. Then a bean bag. Then a drawing. Each time, she said, “I want to show Miss Katie, Mom.” We got to school and Penny, a bit shy, pulled out the object and passed it along to her teacher.

I don’t know of a developmental chart that measures for this new trait. I’m not sure that it says anything about Penny’s cognitive ability or social skills. But I’m pretty sure that it says something about growing up.

Peter and I go out to dinner once a week. And I find myself storing up things to tell him—the way William called the ducks “quack, quack” at the beach, the email I received from a friend I haven’t heard from in a while, my response to a story on NPR. Somehow, whether it is mundane details of my day or profound news, telling him makes it seem complete. Love is like that. It spills over. It can’t be contained.

Penny’s newest trait—“I want to show Miss Katie, Mom”—is more than just a four-year old bringing toys to her teacher. It’s Penny inviting Miss Katie to share her life. It’s Penny, on some level, recognizing that she has something to give. It’s Penny showing love through a Cookie Monster Sticker. It’s Penny having a taste of joy.