Home Sweet Home...

One more sleep. That’s all that sits between now and a brand new house. Tomorrow morning I will wake up, leave for work from one place and come home to an entirely different one.

Our new house is beautiful. Quite honestly, it’s a dream.  We’ve spent countless hours there, ripping up carpet and painting walls and imaging hypothetical furniture placement. But I haven’t yet reached the place in my head where I’ve transitioned from “Oh, this is a gorgeous house” to “Wow, this is my home”. Part of this is my faulty brain wiring, where I am conditioned to assume that beautiful things will eventually be taken away and that struggle is somehow the only way to measure success. And the other part is just the bittersweet reality of new beginnings. 

The house we live in now is truly Shawn’s. It is dark furniture and leather couches and masculine paint colors. It’s a garage with a Scarface poster. It is a place where I am largely glad that the walls can't actually talk. When we moved in, Shawn did everything he could to make it feel like ours. He bought a giant bookcase and spent an entire Saturday night assembling it. He converted the basement into a playroom, research and agonizing over the proper padded flooring. And he didn’t even pause when an entire woodland animal themed bathroom set landed in our cart during a Sunday morning Target trip.  But despite all of his efforts…it was never really ours.

But it was the house where all of our growing together occurred within its walls. The backyard that witnessed a spontaneous, inaugural “I love you, you know...” and almost exactly a year later, a down on one knee proposal. The house that we returned to after our first Valentine’s date -where I wore a red lip and a tight red dress but peeled out of it as soon as we were done with our fancy dinner and immediately put on sweatpants. Where I got so mad that I irrationally cleaned everything we owned but realized no matter what corner I turned, I wasn’t by myself anymore.  The house where Shawn and I have navigated strange modified parenting- reprimanding Grace together and then dissolving into coconspirator giggles as soon as she stomped up the stairs.

I suppose this is an odd sort of love letter to this house. I feel like I crossed the threshold a little battered, somewhat broken and definitely backwards. I wasn’t really expecting to fall in love or looking for any life-changing growth experiences. I just wanted to eat some Chinese food, lose myself in a awful movie (Bad Grandpa, for those of you following along at home) and maybe snuggle a little. Along the way, some things changed. Growth was inevitable and love followed just behind. 

Moving from the house where I was able to finally exhale with an “everything is actually going to be ok” to the home where everything is going to get even better.  

I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.

A Love Story...

This week, I had a phone meeting with a potential wedding photographer. She was kind and soft spoken and asked me a million questions about our wedding and our relationship and our life. 

When I got off the phone, I told Shawn I always had a hard time describing how we met. He gave me a  perplexed look and said "You were friends with my little brother. We met at his engagement party on New Years Eve…can't get much simpler"

That's Shawn. Concrete and solid and forever reasonable. Logical and even-keeled in a way that is sometimes maddening, when I just want him to be outraged in solidarity. 

But for me, our "love story" is made up a million smaller but significant moments. We "met" at an engagement party, but we often marvel at how often we were  in the same place at the same time with minimal interaction. There were countless parties where I was sober and he was decidedly not, serenading me with a spirited version of "Call Me Maybe". At the engagement party, I was heading down the stairs into the basement when he asked me what was going on down there. I quickly replied that it was just some people playing games, nothing too special. Shawn looked directly at me (something I have always found disarming) and told me that he thought I was pretty special. I muttered some nonsensical rebuttal and walked down the stairs with a rather violent accompanying eye roll, lamenting to my best friend that "Isaac's older brother was at it again". Yet somehow, by some combination of tequila and New Year's Eve magic, we shared our first kiss at midnight. 

We didn't exchange numbers or make any future plans then. I breezily decided (contrary to my nature) that if he really wanted to see me, he'd figure out a way. 

The next day, my universe disintegrated. My parents and daughter got on a plane to Mexico and before they had even landed, I was on my way to the ER with my grandfather. What followed was a nightmarish tangle of hours that trickled by in hospital waiting rooms and then at  hospice. This gave me a lot of time to sit a talk with my aunts and eventually, when we had exhausted every other available topic, we began dissecting my dating life. As if on cue, my phone buzzed and I received a Facebook message from Shawn, thanking me for a fun New Year's Eve and giving me his phone number. I agonized over whether or not to respond, worried that it would be uncomfortable if it didn't work out. With the not-so-gentle prodding of my aunt- accompanied with the accurate assessment that my normal way of doing things was not exactly producing any results, I texted him. 

Shawn became this gentle constant from that moment on. He acknowledged everything I was going through, offering support but keeping a respectful distance. I could have set a clock by his text messages and I came to rely on that daily buoy (turns out, he wasn't sure when I got out work so he waited until 5pm to text me so that I wouldn't be bothered during working hours--- see what I mean about that maddening yet admirable logic?).

We had our first date late in January, when I panicked at the mention of actual dinner reservations (my previous forays into the "adult" dating world involved "meeting up for drinks" and other noncommittal nonsense). We spent that entire date inventing background stories for other groups of people at the restaurant and giggling and ended the night with out first sober kiss, on the roof of a parking garage just as it was beginning to snow. 

The next day, my best friend stated very bluntly that this was the man I was going to marry. I called her insane (probably along with some expletives) while driving to Shawn's for Chinese food and a movie, with the warning that I refused to wear "real pants" on a Sunday. Yoga pants, crab rangoons and a Boston Terrier who was a little bit uncertain about my arrival on the scene- and it seemed just as swathed in romance as that rooftop kiss. 

A few weeks later, Shawn came to my parents house, with a bottle of Portuguese wine in hand, for dinner with my family. My aunt and mother pulled me aside in the kitchen and stage whispered "Not to freak you out or anything…but you're done. You're marrying him". I hadn't brought a boy home in years, so I allowed them their obscene optimism. 

But it's not the falling in love part that is worth documenting. Falling in love is decidedly easy. It's the being in love part that floors me. 

Being in love is kisses on the top of my head, it's about the first time spent with my daughter happening to correspond with valentine's day and Shawn bringing her her own box of chocolates (but asking me if it was ok first). It's about watching Shawn be enchanted by all the things about Grace that I take for granted like how she sings along to every song on the radio and having that amazement make me fall in love with them both, all over again. Being in love is looking forward to Sunday morning trips to Target and becoming known on a first-name basis at our favorite breakfast spot. It's learning how to act as a team...it's dissolving into angry hot tears face down in my pillow- assuming  I'm alone but suddenly feeling a steady hand on my back. Being in love is rolling my eyes at his inability to navigate a grocery store, but appreciating that he remembered to pick up Grace's favorite kind of cereal without me having to ask. It's trying to remember to push the dresser drawers closed when I'm done with them, but failing almost every time. Being love is about saving the corniest jokes to tell me and delighting in making me laugh until tears stream down my face. It is about demonstrating self-restraint and not throwing something at him when his phone rings at 3 am due to some sort of donut emergency. Being in love is slow dancing around the kitchen after a very bad day while your five year old sings "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star"….and then later, underneath the stars beside our fire pit, being promised forever, with the same dance moves and same background music. It's about a diamond engagement ring- not in its size or clarity, but that it was custom made to look just like my grandmother's and uses stones from her setting-- so that I carry her love with me always. It's about including Grace in that moment, presenting her with a bracelet of her very own and asking her if he could officially become her "other dad". 

More than just love Shawn, I admire him. He is one of the very best people I have ever met and he pushes me to be better just in an attempt to keep up. I admire his roots, where he came from. I am so grateful for the way his family simply accepted Grace and I as part of his story, and then proceeded to fall in love with Grace automatically and without question. I am equally grateful that Shawn respects how much my relationship with my family has framed our world and how he has seamlessly fit himself into that equation. 

 I understand enough about the universe to know that the adrenaline of love is not the thing that marriages are made of, but I believe the respect and admiration I have for Shawn, for the partnership we have built, will be enough to carry us through the hard work and harder times of forging a life together and choosing each other every moment of every day.

So this is why a simple "we met at a party" and got engaged "at home, just the two of us" seems insufficient somehow. 

There was a lot of time in my life spent convinced I would never marry. That I had somehow missed out and would just have to watch from the dock as my coupled friends sailed off into their sunsets. I was less concerned about that as I was never truly alone- always with a miniature hand grasping and tugging on mine. I didn't admit this out loud often because I knew how ridiculous and self-pitying it sounded, but it was my truth. 

Now, my truth is different. Both of my hands (and my heart) are full. I've been given my happy ending. And I suppose it's not about the wedding I am frantically trying to plan or the "meet-cute" story my inner writer is desperately attempting to create. It is about the waking up every morning, filled with gratitude for the unexpected joy of being here, with him.  

And then realizing that what woke me up was, in fact, his other-wordly loud snoring, a Boston Terrier trying to hijack my pillow as if she were human, and a lanky limbed 6 year old clambering into our bed and planting her bony knees directly into the small of my back. 

Life is not at all perfect. But sometimes it feels pretty damn close.

Happy 6th Birthday Gracie girl...

Dear Gracie,

This weekend we celebrated your birthday party. I spent three days shopping and crafting and generally making myself crazy. The night before, I was up past midnight trying to make sure everything was perfect.

It honestly didn’t occur to me that all my preparation had gotten a little out of hand. This year, there were a couple of well-intended comments by friends, wondering when you would be “too old” to want that kind of themed family party. Shawn told me he had warned Vavo that I took your birthday parties “kind of seriously”.  Up until that moment, I didn’t know that the event required a warning label.

It made me stop and think about exactly why it is that I lose my mind over planning parties for you.

I think it's because when it became just you and I, against the world…I felt like I had something to prove. I wanted the world to know that even when it may have seemed like I was totally and completely falling apart I could pull myself together and throw you an amazing, “pinterest worthy” party.  I wanted people to believe I could do it all, alone.

But the thing is, Gracie…we were never really alone.  Every year, Auntie has been right by my side; creating a plethora of all pink baked goods and staining her hands in the process, trying to stick cotton candy on top of pretzel sticks to make “truffula tree” cupcakes and close to burning her apartment down making blue candy for Elsa’s castle. Without many complaints (but with demands for wine and red bull), she has spent countless hours helping to make you day as perfect as I dream it.

And then there are Mimi and Grampa. They open up their home and host. They scrub floors and clean the kitchen. They tolerate me snapping at them no less than 15 times in the three hours directly leading up to your party. Never mind just your birthday…it’s the quiet ways they’ve been showing up for the past 6 years that count the most.

And now we have Shawn. Who didn't even flinch when I told him to just sit down and wait for me to need him to something this weekend. Who ran out late at night to replenish our supply of dum-dums for lollipop trees and knew not to take it personally when I repeatedly criticized his balloon placement. He has been so patient with me and with you, letting me figure out how to function as one half of a pair as opposed to "alone".  And gently reminding me always that he wasn't going anywhere. 

Every year, I think that this must be the year that there will be less people who come to your party.  You’re getting older (against my very clear and loud verbal wishes) and life has gotten busier and busier for the people that we love. And yet.  They keep showing up.  They carve precious time out of their weekend and they show up to celebrate you.

This year has been a big one for us. You started school. We moved to a new town, a new home. Our immediate family doubled, to include a dog and a Shawn. Our extended family grew too and they didn’t hesitate one minute falling in love with you, enveloping you into their fold like you had always been there. This is something I don’t have the words to express gratitude for.

I guess this is the one thing I’d like to share with you, at the very beginning of your 6^th birthday. That there will be moments in your life when you feel like you’re alone. Loneliness that feels so scary and so certain that it must be real. And the truth is, you need me less and less with each passing minute. You’re reading on your own and riding your bike and rolling your eyes at me. You’re walking up the stairs and into your kindergarten classroom hand in hand with your “bestie” while I linger dejectedly on the sidewalk, pretending like me watching you walk away is somehow keeping you safe.

You’re doing so many things on your own already. But becoming capable of doing great things on your own isn’t the same as being alone.

You’re smarter than I could have imagined and you make me laugh every single day. You’re sweet in the most surprising ways like insisting I use your special blanket when I’m sick. You are only the teeniest bit cautious and then completely fearless in the same moment. You love people to the tips of your toes and are kind to everyone that crosses your path.

So in the moments when life leaves you a little broken hearted (unless you allow me to lock you inside the house until you're 45 or so, this unfortunately will happen), when you feel like the world has totally given up on you…

The people who matter will keep showing up. In big huge ways and in teeny tiny ways. In nagging ways that seem like complete and totally annoyances but are really created from love.

And I’ll be first in line.

Happy sixth birthday to the very best thing to ever happen to me.

Love,

Mama

Oh Christmas Tree

It took us only a few minutes to pick out our Christmas tree this year. 

We spotted it, displayed on the lot, and told the volunteer that we wanted one that “looked sort of like that”. Within minutes, that exact tree was loaded into the small blue pickup truck of the most ancient veterans hall volunteer (his name was Ed and he was completely adorable) and we were being followed home by our Christmas tree, in stunned silence. Grace had only just started to complain about being cold and I had braced myself for the incessant circling of the lot, examining the same handful of trees over and over and over to find the PERFECT one—this is the procedure for Christmas tree procurement that has been engrained in me since childhood.

It is a beautiful tree. It is round and full and entirely too fat for our living room. I dutifully untangled all the strings of lights and tested each of them, except for one (which was, of course, the string which lay directly in the middle of the tree and stubbornly refused to light). I worked up a sweat trying to wind the lights around just so, my short t-rex arms putting me at a distinct disadvantage for the task. I heard a rare and twisting hint of annoyance in Shawn’s voice as we positioned, and then re-positioned lights and I stepped back many times to decide if it looked okay.

I snapped at Grace when she accidently broke a silly plastic Big Bird ornament that I was given on Christmas morning when I was probably just her age. I muttered under my breath as I moved all of her ornaments to where I wanted them, hovered over her incessantly with each new one she picked up. I was playing the requisite Christmas music with our fireplace turned on and had to use every bit of self control not to sigh loudly (I settled on a pointed eye roll that went entirely unnoticed) when I realized that football was on the TV--muted at least, out of respect for my inflexible idea of holiday tradition.

As it turns out, I mostly decorated the entire tree all by myself. By the end I was exhausted, with my hand kneading the small of my back and rivulets of sweat trickling down my neck. Grace was off pouting or playing by herself and Shawn was positioned on the couch, pretending not to watch the muted football games. Not exactly the magical Hallmark holiday moment I had envisioned.

But as I stared at the tree, lights spaced just so, ornaments dating back to my childhood and Grace’s infancy twinkling back at me, my eyes began to fill with tears. It had suddenly and sneakily occurred to me that this was the very first real Christmas tree we had gotten since it had just been Grace and I.

In the years before, it just hadn’t made sense to go through the hoopla of getting a real tree. Mostly, I didn’t want to shoulder the expense for something I was going to just drag out onto the curb after a few weeks. And although I’m sure if I had asked I would’ve gotten plenty of offers for help- I didn’t have the requisite muscles or an appropriate vehicle to bring a real tree home with. And asking for help wasn't exactly a strength of mine. I wanted to do it all. All by myself. 

So we settled for a hand-me-down artificial tree, our very own Charlie Brown version. It was missing branches and required an absurd amount of string, tacks and Christmas magic to stay upright. I decorated it alone, put it away alone and most often left it sitting in the corner of our living room well into January. But, it was ours. 

There is value in the process. The path that led us through, from our sad sweet fake tree to this comically rotund one which is currently distributing pine needles all over our living room floor. The annoyance of being so particular that I needed my tree to be just so, frustration at re-doing a 5 year old's haphazard decorations-- only to step back and be physically overwhelmed by the beauty of the end result. 


The last few Christmases have been as wonderful, as deliriously exhausting but this one- this one is different somehow. It is bittersweet- the first without the steadfast and solid presence of my grandfather, but with so many new memories to grasp hold of and cherish. 2014 has been like this for me, the gnawing ache of loss jockeying for a position next to unspeakable amounts of happiness. 

This year, I fell in love so seamlessly and effortlessly that it actually surprised me when the realization hit that it had happened. Standing watching Grace's first t-ball practice, an event that I was told Shawn wouldn't make it to (but in true-to-him fashion he arrived before me and was keeping my mom company when I got there)- a simple kiss on the top of my head and suddenly and certainly, I knew. Without my consent and without much thought- I was done for. 

I left a job where I had made wonderful friendships and relationships with children and parents that I still miss terribly. I jumped with both feet out of my comfort zone and into a job that challenges my mind and my heart every single day. 

I made a wonderfully terrifying choice to move and in doing so merge G & I's lives with Shawn's, trusting my heart and my gut, learning to share and to accept help and to realize that I don't actually have to do everything on my own. I've watched the two of them fall even more in love with each other as a result and that is the greatest gift I could have imagined receiving. I didn't think it was possible for me to have someone in my life who would love her as much as I do, as intrinsically and as right down to my marrow but- surprised again. With every kitchen dance party, with every minute spent reviewing homework or rehearsing corny play-on-word jokes to tell me…just like the Grinch, my heart grows two whole sizes and often feels like it just might explode.

As some of my relationships have shifted and even almost fallen apart, I have been blessed with a whole slew of new and re-newed relationships- with my family, with friends. The loss of my grandfather was the most difficult thing I have ever been faced with, but it has left me with many gifts and as ridiculous as it may sound, I hold him responsible for a great deal of my current happiness. 

So this year,  I'm going to try my hardest to remember to enjoy the process-- even when it's infuriating or seems bleak or pointless. Because I've learned you just may be surprised at exactly where you end up.

Growing Pains

Kindergarten. To be honest with you I’m not sure how it is that we got here, but here we are. Somewhere in between counting ounces and inches, among memories that are somehow both quiet and loud- we've reached the land of five and a half. Backpacks and folders and permission slips and notes in lunch boxes. Tantrums and dance parties and “you never let me do anything fun” and “you’ll always be my best friend, Mama”.

My mind keeps reaching back to places that are dangerous to go to with my wounded heart. As I drag you out of bed (not an exaggeration) in the mornings, I am reminded of the sleepy way your delightfully chubby toddler arms would tightly grasp my neck, the sweet smell of your tiny sweaty curls tickling my nose. While I dutifully cut the crust off of your sunbutter and jelly sandwiches and slide goldfish into princess themed zip lock bags, I’m transported back to weekend mornings filled with baby-food making. Painstakingly peeling and chopping and boiling organic fruits and vegetables and proudly stacking our store in the freezer. And subsequently becoming hysterical when your father would allow you to lick the flavor dust off of Doritos. When I stand in the steam filled bathroom, my lack of patience apparent in my tapping foot, as the sound of the shower drowns out my tired voice encouraging you to wash EVERYWHERE (including your smelly feet) I can’t help but remember trying to figure out how to balance your tiny slippery body in the water. Or your contagious joy when you discovered splashing and how I let you splash so much that there was more water outside of the bathtub than in it. As I watch you running around at soccer practice, shouting encouragement to teammates and occasionally tripping over your own feet, I think of how desperate I was for you to start walking. How I was convinced that you knew how and simply preferred to be carried- and how you proved this to me but taking your first steps, straight across a crowded room, because you wanted something and I wasn't paying attention to your insistent tugs on my pant leg.

You cried on your first day of kindergarten (because just when I think I have you figured out, you like to throw me a curve ball) and as emotional as I was on that first day, it wasn't until that Friday- when you didn't even glance backwards at me as you ran into the classroom- that I dissolved into hysterical, full bodied sobs.

You love school. Your teacher describes you as wickedly smart, always among the first eager to answer questions at “morning meeting”. You shout hellos and goodbyes in the pick up line, addressing each new friend by name and providing me some unique little tidbit (“She has a princess lunchbox and glittery shoes and a baby brother, Mama”). You are better than I ever could have dreamed.

But there’s one “friend”. One little girl who sneaks her way into our afternoon debriefing sessions, her words and actions peppering our chats during the drive home. The little girl who once told you to “stay away from her family” and that you were “the meanest friend she’s ever seen”. Who kicked your brand new boots the first day your wore them and taught you to say “OMG” (I actually shuddered in disgust the first time I heard this) I know exactly who she is and (like the very mature adult I am) ignore her when she tries to talk to me when I pick you up at your after school program and just only barely suppress my desire to scream vile things at her. I’ve consulted with every mom friend in my arsenal, tried to give you the right words to say and even spoken with your teacher. You don’t seem particularly phased by any of it, wanting only to be her friend- which truly, makes it feel worse. This entire situation is excruciating to me because hello- that’s my heart walking around out there.

I’m terrified that school will bleed the affection and lightness out of you. I worry that by spending my energy instilling the importance of kindness and empathy that I've neglected to give you the skills that you will undoubtedly need to stand up for yourself. I don’t know how to teach you that you don’t need to be everyone's friend, to make you understand that not everyone in your universe is going to like you and that’s OK. It seems like an awful thing to discuss with a five year old. I’m not sure that at 27 I even have it entirely figured out for myself.

An open and empathetic heart comes with disappointments and heartache. I can envision this for you and suddenly understand why seemingly rational people chose to home school, wanting to instantly engulf your tiny body in bubble wrap and steel you against any and all hurts- physical or otherwise.

I could teach you to be unkind, to match this girl word for word. I could try to teach you to not care about others, could focus your path to be one that is strictly self-serving. But that would be hugely unfair to who you have already become. I love your kindness (and your super sassy new boots, no matter who purposefully steps on them) and am most proud of the way you instinctively know when other people are struggling and are always determined to make it better.

You will hurt in this life and people will be mean. Nothing I can do will change that. I’m learning (slowly) to embrace this new phase of parenting, one where you have a life that is wholly separate from mine, where for 8 hours a day you get to be a part of something that I’m not invited to.I'm swallowing my cynicism and bitterness and trying not to let you know that this is only the beginning of people being rotten and awful. I'm avoiding telling you that your life will never be any easier or simpler or more beautiful than it is in this exact moment and trying to embrace this easy joy instead.

We’ll meet these new milestones the same way we did all the others- fairly clueless (with me cloaking my terror in exaggerated impatience) but together. And one day, when I’m listening to you cry over your first boyfriend or argue with your best friend, I’m sure I’ll find myself once again brimming with nostalgia for that first snotty little girl and how I was sure I could fix it all, just by stomping all over her shoes too. 

Be Kind.

I couldn't watch the montage of Robin Williams life on Good Morning America without crying. I read Norm Macdonald's twitter memorial aloud to my mom and my voice wavered and cracked with every line. I, like most people in my generation, grew up watching Robin Williams and owe so much of my own laughter and joy to his talent. But I have never been much affected by celebrity deaths other than the typical pang that is felt when something universally unfortunate happens in the world. As I was describing the heavy (and at the time baffling) emotional fog I had been fighting against all day to my mom she looked at me, her eyes tinged with sadness and said she knew exactly why it had been bothering me so much.

I lost someone I loved very much to suicide when I was a young girl. I lost her. She did not abandon me or make a conscious choice to exit my life. I lost her. It is not a story I share often, as it is very private and difficult for my family. And it is not really my story to share. It was my first true experience with grief but even at twelve I knew that this was somehow different. The oxygen had been stolen out of the room and I watched in horror as my typically strong and fairly stoic mother dissolved in an instant, spending an entire international flight crumpled into the fetal position, still for the occasional shudder of a sob.

The fact that this loss still sneaks up on me, bringing with it acute sadness (15 years later) surprised even me. Maybe it should make me angry. Maybe I should rant and scream about how selfish this person was, how they should have just snapped out of their depression and gotten their life back together. But how selfish of me to make this loss mine alone. Anger is not a productive emotion and I don't believe it is an appropriate one when we are talking about stories like these. Depression is not a bad day. Depression is not something that can be easily remedied. It is a deep, dark and complex monster, one that I have felt the insistent, confident tug of several times in my own life. It is a thief, stealing joy and sleep and love and rational thought. Once someone succumbs to the pull, it takes a literal army to attempt to revive them. And often they simply pull back a hollowed out shell of who the person used to be.

I don't pretend to know or understand what Robin William's family (or any of the countless other families in this same situation) is dealing with right now, except that whatever it is they are thinking or feeling- it is undoubtedly the right thing for them, right now. For me, this serves as a powerful reminder, to live my life by the maxim that has been embroidered on countless throw pillows and splashed across greeting cards. Be kinder than is necessary, always. Especially to those people who often seem least deserving. It is impossible to know the battles people are tirelessly fighting, inside their own heads or inside their own lives. Even the most exuberant person may be grappling just to hold on. A gentle and kind word, a silent smile…that influence may stretch much farther than you can imagine.

When you speak out in ignorance, when you share your controversial beliefs across social media, whether for attention or clicks or just for the entertainment of embroiling yourself in a Facebook argument please remember it is not some broad, generalized concept you're talking about. It's not an emotionless celebrity whose choices you're attacking. Respect people's stories, especially the unknown ones. You never know who you might be reminding of the most difficult time in their life.

Be kind. Always.

Happy Fifth Birthday (a little late)

 Dear Gracie,

            Today you are 5 and almost 3 weeks old. I should apologize for the lateness of your birthday letter but I’m guessing you know me well enough that a missed deadline doesn’t surprise you. This past year has been (among many things) a lesson in not underestimating you. 

                You recently started playing tee ball. It’s been a hilariously unorganized endeavor, with you being so engrossed in standing in a “baseball stance “ that you forget to catch the ball as it flies past you, using your glove as a hat. But it’s allowed me to spend a lot of time watching you. 

                When you were younger, so much of my time was spent doing.  Holding you, making sure you were fed and burped and slept.  And then there was the waiting. Waiting for you to walk, to talk…counting off months and checking off the appropriate achievements.  Now instead of chasing milestones, I find myself anticipating them nervously. You have gone from a needy newborn, to an uncertain toddler, to this gorgeous, fearless and independent little being. Now I spend a large chunk of my time holding my breath and wondering whether I should reach for your hand or stand behind you, giving you a gentle push of encouragement.  I don’t always get it right, but I’m learning. I know you’ll be patient with me.

                You requested a surprise 5^th birthday party, which filled me with equal parts anxiety at the logistics and complete joy at your belief that anything is possible. While we waited for you to arrive at your party, I took a moment to look around. There were over forty guests, crammed into Mimi and Grampa’s living room buzzing with anticipation and eager to make your dream come true.  This is a marvel to me.  Grace, I have to admit something to you that I’m not very proud of. Being around you makes me feel almost invincible and sometimes, I don’t want to share how wonderful you are with anyone else.  But seeing all these people in once place who love you for the incredible little person you are, separate from me, made me realize I need to be more willing to share so you can spread that joy around.

  You're forever teaching me things that I don't always want to learn.

 Just this weekend, I made a face that startled someone who knows me very well into exclaiming “Woah. That was a total Grace face”. Being compared to you is one of the greatest compliments I can receive and filled me with immediate warmth. And we are alike in many ways, in our empathy and our unwillingness to disappoint other people. I can see things ahead for you and part of me wants to shield you, shape you in a way that you are less vulnerable to be hurt in the same ways I have been. But I can’t imagine changing a single hair on your head. You are stronger than I give you credit for and even in the midst of the most horrific tantrum, when you are being your most unreasonable, I know you will eventually see your way through to making it right. 

                I know this because you are smart. And not smart just because you know a lot of things, which by the way, you do. You know the difference between an exclamation point and a question mark, you can count to forty and you recently learned the world chlorophyll while questioning why the leaves were green. But you are also smart in a way that is more difficult to measure, in a way that it takes lots of people a very long time to grasp. You have a way of knowing exactly when someone needs a long hug and give them out freely. You were recently the target of a classroom “bully”, being pushed repeatedly.  This little boy has a lot of challenges in his life which are probably at the root of this aggression and as if understanding this, you refused to push him back (although I know how satisfying that would have been).  You have a wisdom and wit, an understanding of the world that has always seemed much older that your age.

                People often compliment me on the wonderful young lady you are becoming and I find myself wondering if it has much to do with me at all. Because with all this watching, it is the moments that you don’t even know that I am there that I am often proudest of you.  I love stumbling upon you and finding you quietly reading, or catching snippets of your imaginative and outlandish conversations with your friends. I love listening to you singing in your bed when you’re supposed to be sleeping. I find your drawings of people with belly buttons and eyelashes astounding and adore seeing things your have written in your uneven preschool scrawl.  If I had known when you were born what kind of girl you would become, I would have spent a lot less time worrying. 

      This world might be in a rush to change you. To impress its opinions on you, to try to mold you into the person that “they” insist that you are supposed to be. Don’t let it. Build upon who you are, expand your exhaustively curious mind and keep operating on the premise that kindness and love simply multiplies. Because G... every inch of you is completely amazing.

                        

   And you will always be the very best thing to happen to your Mama.

                                                                 

I love you to the moon and back, 

                                                                            Mama.