On The Night You Were Born- Part 4

Sweet Girl,

From the day you were born perfect strangers would stop me on the street, take a look at you, and then say (with a kind of faraway look in their eyes), "it goes so fast." At first, I was annoyed by the interruptions, even a little hostile to the idea that someone would tell me how I was going to experience my time with you.

Oh little one, they were right.

How could it possibly be that tomorrow we will wake up and celebrate your fourth birthday? A few minutes ago I was changing your diaper and trying to snap up your onesie. Now you dress and put your sandals on the wrong feet all by yourself. You have ideas about fashion and food that every so often collide with my notions about the same and you've become a savvy negotiator. You have big ideas, you make up stories, you don't want me to stick around at play dates. All this happened so fast it makes my head spin. But I've always like hanging out with four-year-olds; they were my favorite age to babysit back in the day. What good fortune that I now have a live-in four year old!

This hasn't been the easiest year for your momma. We left Atlanta in September and moved back to the place you were born. It was a really, really hard move for me as I mourned the distance we would live from Mata and so many of our friends in Atlanta. I cried nightly about the fact that you would be leaving Glenn School and Anna Kate and Sara Harper. About the only thing that kept me glued together some days was the fact that you seemed to roll with all the changes so well. Packing your toys didn't faze you, saying final goodbyes to friends was a genuine, but not overly emotional, affair and you were excited about the possibilities in our new home. Your sense of adventure and flexibility got me through some rough days. It sounds crazy to say that I watched and learned from you; but I think that's what happened. I tried to see the exciting possibilities through your eyes, I got giddy when the potential of new, lasting friendships sprung up in our path and I tried to live in the present, with you as my role model. So thank you, Marian, for helping me through a tough time. And in the face of all my worrying, I sit here tonight writing from Mata's house (you're downstairs sleeping in her bed), preparing to send you to Glenn School camp tomorrow and gearing up for your birthday party with Sara Harper and Anna Kate tomorrow evening.

Since this blog seems to have turned into a birthday blog (alas) it seems like I should offer a broad outline of the past year. To say that you've spent the last year becoming more of who you are sounds odd but it feels right. When I look back and think about the year from two to three I see constant movement and bold steps forward in development. This year feels like the softer, gentler version of the year before. This is the year you put finesse on your language skills, built subtle interpersonal skills and discovered the ability to sit and entertain yourself for long stretches of time. I love to sneak into a room, or hide around a corner, when you're playing by yourself and just listen the worlds you create and marvel at your command of language. You often sound so grown up that it makes my heart ache a little bit.

You're still an avid observer of the world around you careful about jumping into new situations and meeting new people. I've stopped thinking of you as shy or bashful. Instead, as the woman who rang us up at Trader Joe's said this week, "it just shows that you have good sense not to talk to every person you meet for the first time." It doesn't take long to win you over, but you do take some time to watch and observe before you engage. Good sense, indeed.

You are crazy about play dates. Last year I wrote that every morning you woke up and wanted to know what we were going to do. This year, you wake up and want to know who you will play with. I try not to take it personally that you would prefer I not be present for your play dates. You have new friends at school and outside of school that have enriched our lives. You have become especially good friends with Naeem, also a newcomer to DC and the son of my new friend, Tanory. Naeem doesn't play well with every kid his age, he's what many old southern women would refer to as "a handful." But you, Marian, bring out the best in him. His parent's relief at having a friend who plays so well with him is evident every time we get together. I love that you have the patience and the skill to navigate a friendship that would be frustrating to many other kids your age.

Tomorrow we will have a dress-up/ballerina/pizza party at Mata's house. That's if you stop throwing up. You were feeling fine today, chasing Joseph around the house at full speed, when you suddenly stopped and starting puking. Later, through runny eyes you said, "I don't want to be sick on my birthday." Oh lord, please don't be sick on your birthday. The minute it was evident you were sick tonight I felt this incredible protective instinct kick in. I wanted to protect you from all the ill, from all the yuck and, most of all, from the disappointment of having your birthday party at camp and at the house tomorrow called off. This kind of desperate feeling is not unlike some of the feelings I felt in those first few days after you were born. It's a scary thing to hold a little tiny being in your hands and realize that you can't protect them from every cold germ, every sad goodbye and every bump and bruise along the way. But if you're lucky enough you get a kid who says, as you did tonight, "I don't want to make other people sick." If you're lucky enough you get a kid who can pick up where she left off with old friends and make new friends with ease. If you're lucky enough, you have a kid just like you.

I love you, Marian. If there's any justice in the world, you'll wake up feeling fit as a fiddle and ready for a cupcake.