My dearest Big Girl:
A few days ago, you came downstairs in jeans and a fancy shirt, carrying a small bag of your “play-pretend” make-up. You said, “I want to look like you, Mommy. I’m a grown-up.” My breath caught in my chest at the sight of my baby turned into a little girl, wanting to play at growing up.
The lights were so bright in the room when you were born. Everything was bright and cold and chaotic. My arms were shaking uncontrollably as I lay on the surgical table, and then they brought you to me and held you up, close to my face. You–with your fuzzy, damp hair and wet, red mouth–had been crying, but you stopped when you heard my voice. I looked at you, and you looked at me with your dark, wise eyes, and in that moment, I ceased being just me and became your mother.
In those first weeks and months after your birth, I sat up with you through the long, dark nights, feeding and feeding you. You latched on and never let go, it seemed. I felt like we would be that way forever, joined in the holiest of communions.
But then you learned to walk. And to run. And you slipped from my arms, and you grew and grew. Now, five years later, you weigh 36 pounds, and you’re 3.5 feet tall. You no longer nestle in the crook of my arm. In the brief moments when you still let me hold you close, you’re all long limbs, tangled hair, and hot breath. Then you’re gone, shimmying down my body and wiping away my wet kisses as you’re off in search of the next adventure.
When they first pulled you from my body, your dad said that you looked just like Poom Poom–my father. Now there is no doubt that you are my daughter. We have the same brown eyes, the same round cheeks–even the same personality, it seems.
On the days when it is so hard to be your mom, and I call my own mother in tears of frustration, she tells me, “You were the same way. She’s just like you.” I hope that is true, because I love the person you are, even through the trying times. Four-into-five has not been an easy year, in some ways. You’ve challenged us mightily, and your dad and I don’t always rise to the occasion in the way that we should. But we are so proud of who you are, Ava. So very proud. You are emotional and sensitive. You have a kind heart. You are perceptive. You’re a great big goofball, and you always want to ham it up with your daddy. You are a good big sister (even though you’re sometimes overly enthusiastic with your brother). You love to wear cowboy hats and bandanas and cowboy boots. And skirts and headbands, too. You’re very into “being fancy”–and you are the fanciest, loveliest creature I can imagine. There is nothing fancier than you in my whole world.
During this sticky-sweet, five-year-old morning of treats and birthday banners and balled-up wrapping paper–and even greetings from a dog in a silly birthday hat–you kept exclaiming to me, “This is the best birthday ever!” I looked at you–my tiny baby from that bright room, my snuggling infant from all those dark nights, my running toddler–and I knew that you were right.
Happy birthday, Ava. You are my heart. Please don’t grow up and away from me too fast.
I love you.
Mama