Dear Daughter,
Today is your third birthday. Please excuse me while I cry quietly in the corner. I am humming ABBA’s Slipping Through my Fingers on loop, and I don’t want you to hear it. I promise that I am not sneaking a snack while away from your prying eyes.
You are sailing past the toddler years and straight into the little girl realm–that magical time where you are speaking in sentences but only a few people understand you. I am your official translator.
You are becoming your own person and developing more complex emotions by the day. Your grandma got her wish–you are becoming just like me, swinging from excited to frustrated to wonderfully joyful in a matter of minutes. An applesauce pouch still solves most of your problems, but I can tell that it won’t work much longer.
This year has been full of changes and transitions, which are almost always harder on me than on you. Except for the pacifier. That one broke my heart, but your cries rang of true grief, like you had lost your best friend. I kissed tears from your cherub cheeks until you finally fell asleep in my arms.
You tell me the best stories with your big imagination. My favorite one starts with the seven trees in the deep, dark forest, but then a beaver chops them into little pieces. Luckily, a magic tree from the sky saves everyone. You invented that tale on the way to school a few weeks ago.
We spend all of our time pretending together. We’re in the living room, but your mind transports us to the moon, a sandy beach, or a doctor’s office that fixes broken bones with a boo-boo bandage.
All the kids at the library are potential friends. You make eye contact and try to introduce yourself. If the child is shy, you play next to her without saying a word. If the child is outgoing, you jump and shout and look at me as if you have found your soulmate.
You love to have races with your daddy. You say, “Ready, set, go!” Or, if you are feeling really silly, “Ready, two snakes, two gorillas, go!” We don’t know why and neither do you. But we all laugh and run wildly with our arms in the air.
Then, sometimes, you knock the wind out of me with your sweetness. You tickle a baby’s toes at story time or ask to snuggle on the couch. Recently, you have started saying, “I want to be like you, mama.” You want my glasses and my make-up for your own face and my shoes for your own tiny feet. It’s the most flattering and startling statement–for you will be like me. So I try to send you positive messages about your beauty, strength, and bravery that might resonate years later.
You love impromptu dance parties. Your moves are a surprising combination of crazy-toddler-running-in-a-circle and graceful ballerina. And I love watching your determined, wide eyes while your paint with watercolors. Do you know that your tongue peeks out of the corner of your mouth when you are really focused?
Baby girl, you won’t be three forever and my memories will surely fade. So I’m writing you this letter to capture your playful spirit and boundless energy. You are my eternal sunshine, the brightest star in my sky, even when the days feel long and crumbs cover my kitchen floor.
And one day when you are in a different state, in a different country, or on a different continent than me, I will remember that time you turned three.
All my love,
Mama
XO
